Two Sides of a Coin
by eredolyn
Summary: This is a story in which an Ithilien ranger and a Southron must learn how to get along.
1. Chapter 1: The Ambush

**Two Sides of a Coin**

**Chapter 1: The Ambush**

**author's note**: This is a tale concerning the fate of two men in the War of the Ring; an Ithilien ranger and a Southron who, under harsh circumstances, must learn how to get along. I do not own Middle Earth, and anything I disclose concerning Southrons in this chapter is drawn from _The Lord of the Rings_.

"Tis said that there were dealings of old between Gondor and the kingdoms of the Harad in the Far South; though there was never friendship."  
-_Two Towers_

It was dawn in an Ithilien glade and the sky was sickly pale, which did nothing for the rangers' moods. The troops almost grudgingly scraped their way through the dry brush and fastened themselves to the earth. Many were positioned behind a hill at the east end of the glade. On the western side was another hill and a few troops warily made their way to that side of the field. Cutting through the glade, between either slope, was a broad road: the centerpiece of the trap.

As soon as they were positioned the men flattened themselves to the ground, but Ladril remained upright. He craned his neck over the crest for awhile to see the men ready themselves on the other hill, but more importantly he wanted one last look at the road.  
"Ladril, get down!" one of the rangers hissed.  
Ladril finally tore his gaze away and slumped down with the other men.  
"You will not miss anything boy," A ranger smiled. "They won't be coming for a while."  
Ladril tried to stem his eagerness. "I was merely looking for the surest way down the hill, Silorn, so I may be swift when I run at the enemy."  
"I think you will _fly_ over this hill before you'd bore your feet with running," Silorn chuckled.   
Ladril made no reply, but rather strained out for one last glance: the glade now gave an orange glow as light pierced between the mountain tops, and the pebbled highway shone like a snarled grin.  
Suddenly the Captain approached from behind, and Ladril hastily drew himself down. The Captain gazed over his men, and encouraged the sleepy troop by saying "Very soon, men. Very soon."  
Ladril gave an agitated huff, at which a ranger quietly mocked "Is it custom for boys barely entered into the service to be so impatient?"  
Silorn shot him a glare, signalling the ranger should not press that matter.

The wait continued, the cold silence only broken by the occasional stifled yawn. Then suddenly a noise was heard down the road. The noise slowly grew, until it became a discernable rhythm: a rhythm of marching feet; a rhythm of clanking spears; the rhythm of an army.

Ladril squeezed the hilt of his sword. A battalion of Southrons was now marching down the road with little heed; supposing perhaps that the dark mountains looming across the Eastern sky would ward off any wary troop of Gondor.

_They will be proven wrong, _thought Ladril with a smile. All the rangers became one loaded spring as the Captain raised his hand for the command.

Suddenly a noise erupted that was utterly unexpected. It rang in the air like the blaring of some wild horn. The rangers spun this way and that to find its source, but soon all realized the cause of such a noise. It rang out again, as if to confirm itself.

"A _Mumak_," The Captain muttered. "They brought a _mumak_ with them."

Whispers rose among the troops, but Ladril managed to hear the Captain say "This changes everything."

When those words finally sank in, Ladril jumped from his position and nearly slid back down the hill face, heedless of any hunched ranger in his way. He marched straight up to the Captain, who was in council with other men. "This changes nothing!" The soldier spat. "This changes _nothing!_"  
"Ladril, we have been preparing to attack a horde of Southrons," The Captain said calmly. "But this has turned out to be a ready adversary, with a mumak at their disposal! I am not leading the men against so large a beast."  
"Will the Ithilien Guard abandon its duty when the enemy holds but a slight advantage?"  
"A slight advantage!" The Captain was beginning to lose his patience. "Ladril, do not let your own loss blind your better judgement!"  
Ladril grew red in the face. "What better judgement have I than to go forth, and make sure the Enemy shall not secretly steal any more lives in our own land?"  
"Despite Ladril's fiery mood, what he says holds truth," Silorn said as he came up behind the boy. "If this Southron army is allowed to go unchecked, we will only suffer more loss. Ladril does not want (nor I, nor any of the troop) the same incident that happened only days ago to happen again."

The Captain considered this a moment, looking from Silorn to Ladril, then to the rest of the men. Now the sound of the enemy's march was growing louder, and soon they would be in the glade.  
"Would that Lord Faramir was here," The Captain muttered.  
"He would indeed have the strength and means to defeat such an adversary," An elder ranger advised. "But he will not issue from the City nor take command of Ithilien seven days yet. We must rely upon our own strength 'til that time."  
"Very well," The Captain sighed. "But if that beast is set loose and charges our lines, we will immediately withdraw."

The others agreed, and soon all were positioned and ready on the side of the hill. A few minutes, maybe less, were all that passed before flanks of Southrons could be seen coming along the road. They passed through the glade and between the two hills with flag bearers marching ahead. Each banner bore a black serpent on red cloth, and the warriors donned bronze plates and hoops of gold in their ears. Their skin was dark and their snarled hair boasted a great matter of beads and trinkets stolen from the dead of their enemies.

"Heathens," A few rangers muttered as they watched the procession march by. Soon the middle flanks were passing through, and it was time. No sign of the mumak could be seen as of yet, but the Captain wasn't going to waste another second watching for it.  
The rangers tensed, swords were quietly drawn, arrows were quickly strung, and all eyes watched for the signal. The Captain steadily raised his horn, and after a moment of baited breath, he sprang the ambush.

The Horn of Ithilien broke the silence of the morning, and the troops from both sides of the road leapt forth and released a volley of arrows. Many Southrons fell to the earth immediately dead, and the rest scattered with bewilderment. The troops of Ithilien now raced down either hill blasting horns, shouting war cries, and meeting the enemy with swift and deadly strokes. 

Ladril, nearly blinded with delighted fury, ran his long sword through many Southrons as they tried to regroup. Already the dead where beginning to pile up, with little loss on the rangers' side. The Chieftains of the Southron army barked orders to the flanks down the road and, to the surprise and great concern of the rangers, those flanks were clearing off the road, not closing in to fight.

The fear of the troops was confirmed with the braying of a monstrous beast. The whole earth seemed to shake as a tremendous mumak raced along the newly cleared road and made straight for the rangers. Right behind the mumak the Southron flanks regrouped and made their charge. This was all done far too quickly for the rangers to retreat. The beast bowled right through the battlefield, plowing through men and earth, then turned to make a second charge. The rangers tried to fire arrows, but the flanks of Southrons were already upon them. Ladril, in the heat of the fighting, saw the mumak start its second rush: gold bangles hung about its fiery eyes, and a black, massive war-tower rocked upon its back.

Ladril gaped and his sword went limp. This was the end of the ambush; with a beast of that size there was no hope for the regiment now.

"Ladril!" 

The ranger turned and saw three men grouped together, fitting their arrows. "Grab a bow, man!" One of them ordered. His head spinning, Ladril managed to pull out his bow and pluck an arrow from a dead Southron.  
"The target is the eye." One man said calmly when Ladril joined them. Steadily the four rangers took aim at the swiftly approaching monster, though Ladril could not stop shaking.  
The morning sun cast its light on the bangles about the mumak's eye. The rangers used that for their target, and fired.

Despite the awesome odds, the target was hit. The beast let out a shattering wail and careened to the right.  
"Retreat now! Retreat!" The Captain cried. With renewed vigor most of the troops managed to throw off the onslaught of Southrons and retreat up either hill and into the woods.

Ladril also was cutting down the enemy and making his retreat, when he heard shouts of terror behind him. The mumak was now swerving madly about the glade, bowling through rangers and Southrons alike. Suddenly it turned too sharply to support the weight of its war-tower. Like the collapse of a tide, the beast made a sound descent and crashed into the earth. Ladril managed to escape being crushed under the monster's frame, but he couldn't escape the ridge of the war tower.

The black, heavy beam came down like a cut tree. It pinned him flat, and he remembered no more.


	2. Chapter 2:Between a Log and a Hard Place

**author's note:** This is a story in which an Ithilien ranger and a Southron must learn to get along. Reading chapter 1 is advised in order to better understand the odd situation in this chapter.

"Peace cannot be built on exclusivism, absolutism, and intolerance." -Gandhi

Ladril's eyes slowly fluttered open. The sun, now passing its zenith, glared down at the ranger as he lay sprawled in the grass. He squinted and turned away from the light, then with a jolt he remembered all that happened that morning: the ambush, the Southrons, the mumak...  
Now it was deathly quiet and Ladril's stomach churned and throbbed. He needed to get out of the glade, perhaps the other rangers were not too far...When Ladril tried to move, the pain in his stomach suddenly doubled. Looking down, his heart leapt to his throat at the sight before him: the ruins of mumak's war-tower tottered dangerously above, and the horn of the tower was crunching into Ladril's ribs.

Ladril cautiously gripped the black wood with his hands and tried to lift the beam off his stomach, but even with all his strength it wouldn't budge. After a few vain attempts, the ranger dropped his head back to the ground and moaned. From the looks of things, the Ithilien troops and even the Southron army had deserted the highway long ago. Ladril was no doubt mistaken for dead, and here he would remain: locked beneath a ton of wood until he rotted away.  
While Ladril reflected with disgust the prospect of rotting, he suddenly heard a sound. It was a groan...right next to him.  
Ladril slowly turned his head, and would have jumped if the wood hadn't held him down. There, not five feet away and also pinned by the beam, was a Southron who was just regaining consciousness.Ladril could only watch as the Southron shook his aching head and opened his eyes. He jolted at the sight of the war-tower looming above, and then gave an even bigger jolt when he saw the Ithilien ranger lying right next to him.  
They stared at one another blankly. A moment passed...then in perfect unison they lunged at each other.

The combat was little more than the flailing of arms followed by grunts and curses. Despite the great attempts on either side, neither Ladril nor the Southron could budge from their positions.  
Their vain efforts to strike each other stopped when they heard the war-tower crack and groan. The two men looked up in terror to see the tons of wood balanced above totter dangerously forward. The pressure of the beam on the men's stomachs sharply increased.  
Ladril hissed a few curses as he felt his ribs bend in. The Southron meanwhile whispered a quick prayer. The war-tower finally rocked back with a heavy sigh, and all was still.   
Stark silence followed. Ladril and the Southron let out a long breath and glanced at each other.  
The ranger knew there was only one option.

"...Listen," He said to the Southron. "I think there is a way we can both escape," Ladril gritted his teeth at the next part. "Regretfully, it will require us to work together."His adversary gave him a blank stare.  
"This is marvelous." Ladril muttered. "Look, put your hands under the wood like this."  
The Southron duly mimicked Ladril's motion.  
"Now, if we both push, it might be enough to lift the beam," The ranger explained. "Ready? Now push!"  
Ladril squeezed his eyes shut and pushed using every muscle, but with no success. It was hopeless, even with the strength of two people the beam _still_ wouldn't-  
Ladril turned to the Southron, and found an amused smirk on his dark face.  
He never pushed.

"You---must---push!" Ladril emphasized the words heatedly. "Before---I---_kill--_you."  
The Southron gripped the beam and readied himself, but he still wore a wide smile.  
"He thinks this is funny," Ladril muttered. "We are about to be crushed under the ruins of a war-tower, and he thinks this is funny."  
The two men gave a sharp glance at one another and pushed at the beam with all their might. With a groan the wood slowly lifted up, but already the arms of both men quivered under the weight.  
"Slide! Slide!"  
The Southron followed Ladril's action. Holding up the wood, they scooted through the grass down the length of the beam, until at last they reached its stubbed end. The two men gave the beam one last push and rolled past the stub before it came back down with a thud.

Folding his arms over his chest, Ladril rocked himself up and gasped for air; he was sure his lungs had been crushed.  
The Southron meanwhile had gotten to his feet: his lungs filled with all the air they needed. Quickly he drew his knife in front of Ladril and prepared for combat. The Southron was surprised to find his adversary bowing, with his arms folded across the chest. The Southron finally shrugged and moved to the back of the ranger.

The last thing Ladril remembered was hearing a hard THWACK across the base of his skull.


	3. Chapter 3: Found In Translation

**Chapter 3: Found In Translation**_  
_

_  
It was Ladril's tenth night in the Ithilien regiment. It was cold and raining when he was summoned to a tent and received the message from a scout.  
When the message was recited to him, Ladril's ears felt deaf at first to its meaning. But slowly the words of the message sank deep into his mind, into the dark corners where his gravest fears lurked. The words played out until they echoed through every dreaded thought, then slowly they squeezed at his throat, numbed his body, and at last pierced straight through his heart. Ladril stumbled out of the tent, heedless of the rain, of the cold, of the entire world.  
The boy collapsed into the mud and buried his head in his hands. This could not be happening, not to him. But the bleak fact bore into his mind: Ladril was now truly alone._  
"_Belegorn!" Ladril cried helplessly at the unfeeling sky. "BELEGORN!"_

Ladril woke with a start to a wild bird's cackle. The sun was now starting its descent in the West, casting small shadows in the thick woods. Ladril raised his head and found himself laying on smooth, flat earth. Of course he had no idea where he was, but he could have sworn that, some hours ago, he was pinned under a log next to a Southron...  
The ranger dismissed that event as a bad dream caused by the meat cakes he had a few nights ago. He would need to find the troops now, or at least reach Henneth Annun. Ladril eased himself up to stretch, then suddenly gasped.

On his wrists were tight, bronze shackles.

The ranger stared at the cuffs blankly, then with a jolt he touched the back of his head and realized it was extremely sore.  
As if to confirm Ladril's mounting fears, a figure lumbered into the clearing carrying firewood. It was the Southron, still wearing the same impish grin.  
"What...what have you done?!" Ladril cried in bewilderment, but the Southron simply unloaded the wood and started gathering twigs and dry leaves.  
Ladril grew red in the face. "You fiend!" He spat. "I save your life, then you knock me out and chain me with shackles, is that it? Have you no feelings? No thought of gratitude for my help? I suppose it'd be a wonder if you contained _any_ thoughts in that empty head of yours, wretched heathen!"  
The Southron paused in his collecting of twigs at Ladril's violent words.

"Ah, very good!" Ladril laughed with contempt. "At least you can tell when you are being insulted. Well I have got far more for you, dark southern boar! You are the infestation of some merciless desert! A plague which seeks to eat up all that is good in the world! You have taken innocent lives without a thought and you ought to pay, barbarian!"  
Ladril would have continued, but he worked up so much slather in his ranting that he began choking on his own spit. The ranger coughed violently until tears jerked out of his eyes. When he finally caught his breath and calmed down, he saw a dark hand holding a leather flask inches from his face. Ladril stared at it, then warily his cuffed hands took the flask from the Southron. It was brimming with water.  
"For me?" Ladril asked, a bit startled. "...Well, thank you,"  
"My pleasure," The Southron muttered.

Ladril nodded approvingly at the Southron's manners...and then it hit him. The ranger nearly fell backwards with shock.  
"You...you know my tongue?!" he cried.  
"No," The Southron said flatly. "I know the tongue of Gondor well enough but I do not know _your_ tongue, which seems only to consist of violent curses." Here the Southron paused reflectively. "However I must commend you; never before has a man insulted me so creatively."

Completely speechless, Ladril now studied his adversary for the first time. The Southron was quite young: not much older than Ladril himself, and his skin was light for a man of the South. On the his jerkin were sewn rows of bronze plates, the rest of his raiment was black with the occasional band of crimson red. His dark hair was cropped short, but various strands had been left long and were laced with a number of precious stones and odd trinkets. On the Southron's brow was a beaded headband, which looked more like a home-spun craft than treasure, and strung to the side were coins and bits of jewelry bearing the symbol of Gondor; this enabled Ladril to guess how many soldiers this man killed and looted.  
"Tell me how you know the Common Speech," Ladril finally demanded.

"Interesting that you call it 'Common Speech' when it is common only to you," The Southron mused. "But now is not the time to answer questions. It is, however, is the perfect time for introductions. I am Shastan of Western Kisha'rut. What is your name?"  
Ladril glared at his captor.  
"...This is the part where you reply," Shastan coaxed the ranger.  
Being shackled and at the enemy's disposal, Ladril was left with little choice but to comply.  
"My name is Ladril," The ranger muttered.  
"Laa-ril?" Shastan tried in his accent.  
"No, Ladril."  
"_Laaderil,_"  
"_Lad-ril_. It's not that difficult."  
"Just give me a minute. _Laader_-"  
"Stop putting so many vowels in it!"  
"It has too many consonants anyway!"  
"This is _ridiculous!_" Ladril cried out.

Birds scattered from the trees at Ladril's outburst and the whole forest fell to complete silence. The two men stared at each other in frustration as the sun began to die in the West.  
"Ld-reel?" Shastan offered.  
"Forget it," Ladril muttered. He got up and began walking away.  
"Where are you going?" Shastan asked incredulously. "I am not finished with our conversation."  
"Well I am," Ladril answered. "In fact, I am quite finished with this whole nightmare! Right when I think things could not get more strange, here I am in the middle of a forest teaching a Southron pronunciation!"  
"Teaching a what?" Shastan asked.  
"A _Southron_," Ladril repeated.  
"What is a Southron?"  
The ranger stared at the man blankly. "..._You_ are a Southron!"  
"'South---_ron_?'" Shastan rolled out the word with disdain. "Sounds barbaric."  
Ladril threw his hands up in the air. As he marched away again he grumbled "Well it suits you."

Shastan quickly jumped in front of Ladril, barring the way. His pleasant expression dissipated to a solemn glare.  
"That is twice you have called me barbaric."  
"Live with it," Ladril snapped, and tried to move around him.  
But Shastan pressed a hand hard into Ladril's chest.  
"Not until you properly explain why I deserve that title, _Laaderil_."  
"Very well!" The ranger shoved the shackles in Shastan's face. "_This_ is why you are barbaric!"  
"Oh, those?" Shastan stepped back stared at the shackles blankly. "Why those are customary. How else would one procure a slave?"  
Ladril paused as those words seeped in and took full effect. "...You think...I am your _slave?!"_  
"Yes, and you think so too," Shastan stated. "After all, you yielded to me."  
"I never yielded to you!"  
"Yes you did. Back there, when we escaped our...predicament under the log," Shastan smirked at the humorous episode. "You crossed your arms over your chest. That signals you yield."  
"Did it cross your mind that I was in _pain_ at the time?" Ladril asked coldly.

Shastan was about to rebuke him, but paused. He thought for a moment, tilted his head reflectively, and said "...Oh."

Ladril gave an aggravated sigh. The situation was a nightmare, but at least some clarity had been given now. "All right, it was just a big misunderstanding then," The ranger reasoned. "This changes everything."  
Shastan looked at his captive. "This changes _nothing_."  
"Surely you don't mean I'm still your slave!" Ladril scoffed, but no jest could be found in his captor's face.  
"It was indeed a big misunderstanding, but the fact of the matter is that you are in the shackles and I am holding the knife. Therefore, unless fortunes change, you are still my slave." Shastan bent down and went back to gathering twigs for the firewood. "And if you try to escape, I will either track you down or you will be eaten by some beast since you cannot defend yourself. So I suggest you do the smart thing and stick with me."  
"This...this is ridiculous!" Ladril sputtered. "Of all the inhumane, spineless, _barbaric _swine! When my regiment comes to save me, we'll see who wears the smug face then! I'll grab that little decorated head of yours and stuff these shackles right through your ears! What do you think of that, you straw-headed thick-skinned slit-eyed son of a mumak?"

The ranger continued ranting like this until Shastan had built up a decent fire. The sky became darker and the air colder, when Ladril finally ran out of curses to rattle off. Shastan spread out a bedroll for himself and horded together all the supplies he had salvaged from the battlefield.  
"Now if you're done cursing," Shastan said to Ladril, "I suggest you get some sleep. We will be travelling at dawn."  
Ladril indignantly laid on the earth with a huff. He couldn't tolerate this humilation. He was not Shastan's slave. He was _no one's _slave. Ladril would have to escape.  
_But you're in no condition to flee_, Ladril's voice of reason stated plainly, _maybe the safest thing for you to do, in the middle of this dark forest, is stick with this Southron who has supplies._

Ladril always made it a point to follow his voice of reason.  
...But tonight he would make an exception.


	4. Chapter 4: Of Pits and Pots

**Two Sides of a Coin**

**Chapter 4: Of Pits and Pots**

"When you've hit the bottom, the only direction to go is up."-_Anonymous_

The night was cold and foreboding, but if Ladril did not escape now, most likely he would never get another chance.  
Tightly gripping the chain between his cuffs to keep it from clinking, the ranger crept over to the sleeping Southron and studied him. He knew his captor possessed some sort of key to the shackles, but as he watched Shastan lightly twitch in his sleep Ladril concluded the risk searching for it was too great.

Instead the ranger turned to Shastan's supplies and softly sorted through them. Even in the dark Ladril could tell he was rummaging through a pile of black bags that all looked alike; the supplies Shastan had salvaged from the battlefield had belonged to Southrons.

_Brilliant,_ the ranger thought as he glared at Shastan's motionless form. _He plunders Gondor's dead of their gold and trinkets, but he won't touch their rations._

At length Ladril settled on taking the bag that felt heaviest and softly walked to the center of the little camp. Since he was knocked out and shackled on the battlefield, it was obvious that the Southron had to drag him from there to this spot (wherever this spot was), thereby leaving obvious tracks. All Ladril had to do was find the tracks and follow them back to the battlefield. From there, the young ranger hoped, he could get a good idea of the direction to Henneth Annun.  
Ladril did not have to look long before he found a trail of pressed grass and broken twigs entering the small clearing. Heaving the bag onto his shoulders, the ranger vigorously plunged into the darkness and pursued the trail.

The moon was full and bright, illuminating the way for Ladril's venture. As the trail clearly guided him through the treacherous woods, he let his mind wander to what a few days' journey would bring: a hardy welcome by his fellow rangers, a commendation by his captain for evading the enemy, and a party gathered to hunt down the Southron and put him in chains.  
Ladril's pace happily quickened at the thought. He expected the Captain would at least send scouts to track Shastan, anyway. He expected the troops would take him seriously after this night. He expected he would receive a medal and three promotions.

...What he didn't expect was a rather large pit, hidden by the shadows, to gape right in front of him.

With a startled cry the ranger toppled downwards. A brief second passed before he landed in very soft mud, buffeting his fall. Ladril lay still for a moment, getting over the shock. Carefully he moved his limbs, and counted himself lucky that he was unharmed. When the ranger rolled over and looked upwards, however, all thoughts about luck were quickly dropped. The pit he had fallen into, probably caused by a slide during heavy rain, was at least double his own height.

Not caring who or what heard him, Ladril loudly cursed and kicked a side of the pit. How could he let this happen? He spent all those months training in the wild for _this_? He let his guard down. He should have been concentrating. He should have been more careful. Then things would be different...

Ladril was emphatically uncomfortable whenever things were beyond his control. He couldn't stand being in situations he had no handle on, and thus being tightly shackled at the bottom of a pit was indescribably irritating to him.  
The cold air began to bite through Ladril's jerkin as the minutes passed. The chill on his freezing skin served as a reminder that he only had so much time to get out of the pit before he would freeze to death.  
He got up and studied a side of the pit. It looked plausible to climb...had he free hands. The chain between his shackles was so short that climbing would be almost impossible. Still, he concluded, there was no harm in trying. Ladril dug his cold fingers into the muddy wall, found some grip, and hauled himself upwards

.  
After climbing a foot and a half he fell on his back with a thud.

Still determined, he got on his feet and tried it again, then again; each time gaining a few more feet than before. He was quite impressed with his improvement, but the young ranger's hopes were suddenly dashed when he saw his heavy supply pack glaring at him from the mud.

If he took it, climbing out of the pit would be hopeless. If he left it, he would starve to death before reaching Henneth Annun.

The minutes were turning into hours, and as every hour passed Ladril's body felt weaker from the merciless cold. He hugged his arms in and calmed his freezing mind to properly think.

By the looks of things, there was only one plausible option left.  
…Calling for help.

Ladril hated that option, and considering there was only one particular person in the woods that would hear him, he _really_ hated that option.

Through his chattering teeth Ladril gave an indignant huff. He was not about to stoop so low as to ask that…that…_savage_ for help. He paced about the pit, rubbing his shivering arms, stewing in his thoughts, when he paused in a moment of recollection. Now that he thought about it..._really_ thought about it…he himself acted like a perfect savage the entire afternoon; cursing his head off while Shastan quietly made a fire and built the camp.

…Something is dreadfully wrong with Middle Earth when a Gondorrim is profane and a Southron well-mannered.

Ladril had been very crude, but another thing he was uncomfortable with was change. Jumping from an Ithilien ranger to a Southron's slave in one day really set him off. His stubbornness in the face of change had often triggered his parents' scolding…and perhaps deepened the scar of his recent loss…

Ladril quickly cast the thought away. After a silent moment to swallow his pride, he cupped his freezing hands and reluctantly said "...Help."  
That honestly did not feel too bad. He tried calling louder.  
"Help!"  
Again.

"_Help!_"  
And again.

"Shastan! Shastan, help!"

Something from above hit Ladril's head and bounced into the mud. Wincing, the ranger ordered his frozen legs to bend down as he picked up the round object in puzzlement.

From what could be told in the darkness, it was the knotted end of a rope.  
Looking up, Ladril found that the rope was dangling from the top of the pit. And there, blocking the faint light of the stars above, was the head of Shastan peering down.

"Had enough, have you?" He said wryly.  
Ladril blinked. "...You...were right there?"  
"Yes."  
"...The whole time?"  
"Yes."  
"...Just waiting?"  
"Yes."   
"What on earth _for?!_" Ladril burst through his chattering teeth.

"I was not about to lower my rope down unless you admitted you needed help...particularly _my_ help."   
Ladril muttered under his breath and grabbed onto the rope, but Shastan made no motion to pull.  
"I want the bag first," He ordered.  
"You have a thousand more at the camp," The ranger answered dryly.  
"But that's the pot bag."  
"The what?"  
"The pot bag. It has my best pots in it."   
Ladril looked at the bag, then at Shastan in disbelief. This whole time he had been lugging a supply pack that had no supplies in it.

Sick to death of ironies now, Ladril's numb fingers tied the rope to the bag and Shastan hauled it up. After a few moments he threw the rope back down. Ladril made no move to grab it this time.  
"I do not want to be your slave," He said firmly.  
The Southron shifted forward. "But you also don't want to be in the pit, do you?"  
"...No."  
"So make your choice."

Ladril paused decisively. Then, with his entire body nearly frozen and his strength spent, he weakly clung to the rope. Shastan readied himself and after much effort pulled the ranger out onto the dry grass. Both men sat in exhaustion as the stars in the sky began to dim into the dawn. After some silence Shastan glanced at Ladril.  
"It's about time you gave yourself up."  
Before he could blink Ladril had a firm grip on his collar and yanked him forward.  
"Let's have one thing understood. I may be in chains, but while there is breath in my body I will never be a slave. I will not break down and I will not give in. And know that the next opportunity I get I will put myself as far away from you as Middle Earth will possibly allow."  
He released his grip with a shove. Tightly wrapped in his cloak, Ladril staggered back in the direction of the camp.

Shastan at length stood and looked after Ladril in bafflement.  
"…Looks like we will get along splendidly," He muttered.


	5. Chapter 5: Art of Pointless Arguements

**Chapter 5: The Art of Pointless Arguements**

"Social wit which, never kindling strife,   
Blazed in the small sweet courtesies of life." -_Anonymous_

Ladril's eyes blinked open as shafts of light pierced through the silent woods. The frigid air added to the stillness of the morning, which made Ladril turn over with a shiver. A soft chink caused the ranger to glance down at his wrists, and with a groan he realized they were _still_ shackled.  
A few yards away, upon a small boulder, sat Ladril's captor. He seemed to have been up a long while, as there was a fire behind him and the smell of cooking wafted through the air. Now the young man was idly flipping a gold coin with his fingers.

Ladril just stared as Shastan flipped the coin up and caught it in its descent. One side of the coin depicted some prominent figure, the other side was worn and faded. The gold of the coin flickered as it was tossed up, then down.  
Ladril watched the coin's motion for a few moments before looking up at Shastan.  
"What are you doing?"

Shastan paused and stared at Ladril.  
"I am tossing...a coin...with my fingers," Shastan said slowly. "And _you_, Laaderil, are lying there doing nothing, and _that_," He pointed to the fire pit. "Is breakfast cooking."

Ladril glared coldly at Shastan before lifting himself up to stretch. As the ranger rubbed his stiff muscles, Shastan went to the fire to serve breakfast. Ladril supposed refusing to eat would be an adequate sign of his rebellion, but the smell of food was far too enticing. The captive weakly plopped himself down by the fire, across from his captor, and took his serving of breakfast.

As the Southron bit into the fried bread, he couldn't help but watch Ladril finger his food discouragingly.  
"It is not poisoned, I assure you," Shastan said dryly.  
"I should not have grabbed the rope," Ladril finally muttered.  
"What?"  
"Last night. I shouldn't have grabbed your rope and been pulled out of the pit."  
"Don't be absurd. If you hadn't done it you would have died."  
"I know."  
Shastan looked up from his meal and saw that Ladril was quite serious.  
"...Then you would have met the condemnation of an unprepared soul," Shastan said solemnly.  
"Pardon?"  
"If you give up too early to let Fate guide you, then your soul is unprepared. And those who have not followed Fate to the end of this life will be rejected in the life hereafter."  
Ladril shrugged. "I do not believe in an afterlife."  
Shastan gaped at the ranger. "Then what sort of plan do you believe your Maker has set for you?"  
"Gondor has abandoned such superstitions long ago."  
Shastan studied the ranger carefully. "...And yet you still wish for death?"  
Ladril sighed and nodded.

There was silence for a moment, then Shastan said "Does this have anything to do with...Belegorn?"  
Ladril's eyes immediately flashed. "How do you know Belegorn?"  
"I don't, but you were calling out for him in your sleep. Who is he?"  
"That's none of your concern!" Ladril cried.  
"I do not wish to pry," Shastan said defensively. "It is just that you wish for death, but it is clear that you also wish for Belegorn. Could the two be intertwined?"

The question stung Ladril, and he did not wish to worsen the pain by giving an answer. He ignored Shastan's question and resumed eating his breakfast; quite a difficult task when tightly shackled.

He glared at the short length of chain in frustration, but he suddenly realized an obvious peculiarity. "Where did you _get_ these?"  
Shastan looked at the shackles, then at Ladril. "I am in the army, aren't I?"  
"I hardly believe bronze chains complete with lock and key are standard equipment for Southron soldiers. Where did these come from?"  
Shastan paused, seemingly at loss for words. Then at length he smiled. "This seems to be a morning of questions and no answers, eh Laaderil?"  
"_Ladril_."  
The Southron ignored him. "We need to finish up here and pack. Many miles must be covered before nightfall."

By mid-morning the camp had been cleared, the load of supplies had been split equally, and the day's journey was underway. Ladril knew better, thanks to the outcome of his escape-attempt the night before, than to try something so foolish again...not while they were in the middle of a dangerous forest, anyway. So the ranger kept quiet during the first few miles of the journey, until he finally decided to question what the point of the journey _was_.  
"We are going Home," was Shastan's proud answer. "Back to Western Kisha'rut."  
"We are not trying to catch up with your army?" Ladril asked, utterly disappointed.  
"If we did, and got ambushed by your troops again, my fortunes would be exchanged with yours." Shastan looked at Ladril's shackles and slightly shuttered. "No, I have been away long enough. We're going Home now."  
"And what will happen to me once we reach 'home'?"  
Shastan thought a moment. "Well, can you cook?"  
"...A little," Ladril said honestly.  
"Can you wash?"  
"Dishes, yes. Clothes, no."  
"Good enough," Shastan smiled cheerfully. "You will be an enormous help to Mother."

Ladril stopped dead in his tracks. "I am going to be a slave to your _mother_?"  
"Oh yes. She needs a lot of help, being on her own and all." At this Shastan's gaze turned far away. "...She'll be so thrilled."  
"If you think I am going to serve your _mother_, let alone any Southron at all-"  
"Will you _please_ stop calling us that?" Shastan groaned. "It sounds so degrading."  
Ladril arched a brow. "But we've been calling you 'Southrons' for hundreds of years."  
"Not with my people's approval, I imagine. Anyway, I call you 'Gondor-man' after your tongue, so I deserve the same respect."  
"Fine," Ladril was not about to argue again. "What do your people call themselves?"  
"...Us,"

Ladril blinked. "...What? That's it?"  
"'Us', 'Our People', yes that's it." Shastan nodded.  
"Then how you tell yourselves apart from other folk?"  
Shastan stared at him. "...Because we _look_ different..."  
"What do you call your land, then?"  
"Home."  
"How ridiculous," Ladril muttered.  
"When you are the only people existing in five hundred leagues of desert, you do not bother with racial identity."  
"But you're not in a desert anymore," Ladril insisted. "You are in Gondor, and here differentiation required."  
"Fine," Shastan huffed. "Just give me a name other than Southron."  
"Very well, _Haradrim_ it is then."

Ladril continued walking, but after a moment he realized Shastan was giving him another blank stare.  
"Oh what?" Ladril said exasperated. "_Haradrim_ is the more eloquent version of Southron."  
"It's the more _confusing_ version of Southron," Shastan wrinkled his nose. "Haarad---Haaradeer--"  
"Alright! Valar forbid I give you a name you cannot pronounce!"  
Shastan tilted his head quizzically. "...What's a Valar?"  
"Oh never mind."

There was a space of silence, but after some thinking the ranger came to a conclusion. "How about _Swerting_?"  
"Swerting?"  
"That's it," Ladril said, relieved that Shastan finally pronounced a name correctly. "It is what the folk in the North call you."  
"_Swerting_," Shastan repeated. "I like that. Especially the 'ting' part. Swerting is a fine name."  
"Well now that we've got that settled," Ladril said in a sour voice of pleasantries. "We can get some _other_ things cleared up."  
"...Such as...?"  
"Such as how _you_ know the Common Tongue!"  
"What? Is that so strange?" Shastan asked innocently.  
"When you are the foreign enemy, that is most strange."  
"Perhaps we Swertings endeavor to be cultured."  
Ladril huffed. "Only when it profits you, I'm sure."  
Shastan was about to shoot something back, but suddenly stopped. Ladril looked up to see the Swerting studying him intently.

"...What?" Ladril asked, feeling very uncomfortable.  
"I've seen your face before," He said, squinting at Ladril's features.  
"Yes, I think we were under the same log at one time."  
"No seriously. I've seen you before that," Shastan thought a moment. "Where were you during the battle?"  
"You mean the ambush?" Ladril recalled. "I was on the Eastern side of the road, next to the slope. Why?"  
"Now I remember!" Shastan cried. "It was _you_!"  
"...Me?..."  
"Yes!" Shastan pointed a finger accusingly. "_You_ killed Nefima!"  
"Who's Nefima?"  
"The Lady of our battalion! You killed her near the end of the battle!"  
"I did no such thing!" Ladril said appalled. "I do not go killing ladies. And I never saw any on the field."  
"She was there," Shastan said in a firm, icy tone. "And you _did_ kill her."

Ladril desperately tried to think back. He was so caught up in the heat of battle, swinging his sword so carelessly, perhaps it was possible...  
"I am...so sorry." Ladril started.  
Shastan simply snorted in disgust.  
"Truly I am sorry," The ranger could feel the blood draining from his face. "If I did kill your lady, I swear it was purely by accident."   
"_Accident?_ You put an arrow through her eye!"  
Ladril hesitated in puzzlement. He never shot anyone during the ambush. The only time he fired an arrow was when he aimed for the...

Suddenly it all made sense. "You call that hulking war-beast a _Lady?_"  
"She was the finest Mumak to leave our land," Shastan sighed reflectively. "She was the pride of the battalion, too. Nefima had such a sweet spirit about her."  
"When I drew my arrow, I did not realize she held such sentimental value," Ladril nearly laughed.  
"Well she did," Shastan said sourly.  
"Alright...I am sorry for shooting Nefima. Can you forgive me?"  
With a cold glare Shastan looked the ranger dead in the eye.  
"You owe me a mumak."  
Ladril was about to laugh again, but he saw that Shastan was quite serious. There was silence for a moment, in which Ladril wisely decided that how a slave could possibly procure a new mumak was a discussion for another time.

Meanwhile, the Swerting had begun weaving through the trees and brush in an irregular manner.  
"...Could you slow down?" Ladril said at last. "My feet are still sore; in fact why don't we have a rest? It's not as if time is pressing, and you are probably lost anyway."  
Shastan suddenly grew tense at this.  
Ladril stared at the Swerting and realized that his half-hearted comment struck a nerve.  
"...You _are_ lost aren't you?"  
"No I am not," Shastan quipped back.  
"You are!" Ladril was thoroughly delighted. "How long ago did you lose direction?"  
"I am _not_ lost!"  
"Come now, just tell me."  
"If I was lost, I would tell you. But Swertings never lose their sense of direction."  
"That's another thing," Ladril said. "How could a Southron- or Swerting, know their way through a _forest_? You have probably never seen one before!"  
Shastan's eyes shifted to the daunting trees.  
"Out with it," The ranger demanded. "How long have you been lost?"  
"...Three hours," Shastan said miserably.  
"Well," Ladril whistled for emphasis. "You are over your head here. Lost in enemy territory, eh? I do wish I could help out, but I am not too fond of ever seeing Western Kisha'rut."  
"Well unlike your disastrous attempt last night, I am going to actually _find_ my way through!" With that Shastan plowed ahead.

"...And how do you propose to do that?" Ladril asked, nearly running to keep up.  
"All I have to do is find the Ithilien road," Was the reply.  
"_If_ you can find it," Ladril muttered.  
"I will."  
"You won't."  
Shastan turned on the ranger. "Would you like a bet, Laaderil?"  
"I really wish you wouldn't mangle my name."  
The Swerting's fingers produced his gold coin. "I bet you this I'll find the road before dark."  
Ladril looked at Shastan incredulously. "You dare bet with me?"  
"You find that offensive?"  
"I find that foolish. I've never lost a bet."  
"You will now."  
"You're on. And I bet you my belt you will not win."  
Ladril gestured to his belt, which boasted a buckle of fine silver. Shastan nodded in consent and continued walking. He looked as if he had direction now, but it was plain to Ladril that they could not be more lost.  
"How can you be sure where you are going?"  
"Trust me," Shastan said in an aggravated tone.  
"But how do you _know_...?"   
"You want to raise the stakes?" Shastan turned on his heel. "I bet you _ten_ gold coins I'll find the road before dark."  
"I do not believe you even have ten coins."  
"I don't."   
"Then how are you going to pay me if you lose?"  
"I am not worried about that."  
"Why not?"  
Shastan leaned forward. "Because I am not going to lose."

Ladril glared at the smugly confident Swerting. He couldn't let Shastan get the best of him.

"Fine...I bet my sword."  
Shastan laughed. "Your sword is still on the battlefield!"  
"I'm betting on it anyway."  
"And when I find the road, are you going to trot back and retrieve it?"  
"I won't have to," Ladril leaned forward in a mimicking fashion. "Because I am not going to lose."  
Now it was Shastan's turn to glare.   
"Alright. If you are so confident, I'm betting a stallion of _royal blood_ that you'll lose."  
Well Ladril would not be outdone.  
"I bet a mumak," He declared.  
"You already owe me a mumak," Shastan stated.  
"Fine..._two_ mumaks."  
"Do you realize how much debt you'll be in?!"   
"Only if I lose."  
"Then I bet the ring of the Tisroc!" Shastan declared.  
"And I bet the boots of the Steward!" Ladril cried.

The betting continued at this ridiculous rate until the heavy clouds in the West glowed with a brilliant hue and the sky grew dark. It was past dusk and Shastan was no closer to finding the road than he was that afternoon.  
"...I get an extension," Shastan said.  
"You get nothing of the sort."  
"But it's overcast," The Swerting looked up at the forlorn sky. "It's making the light fade more quickly."   
"Then that is too bad for you," Ladril stated. "Admit defeat already."  
"Just give me one more..." As Shastan said this he tripped over a rock. Stumbling through the brush, Shastan soon regained his footing on...  
The road.

Both men stared dumbly at the sight. After a long moment, they pushed at the road's white pebbles with their feet, as if doubting the road's existence. After it finally sunk in, Shastan let out a resounding whoop and danced about.  
"I win! I win!" He happily sang. "Now we can go South! Back to Western Kisha'rut! And **_you_** must serve my mother and be indebted to me _for life!_"  
Indeed, by the time Shastan found the road Ladril had bet on his sword, two mumakil, the Steward's boots, the Tower of Ecthelion and half of Belfalas. But Ladril remained strangely calm.  
"I am not indebted to you," He said plainly.  
"...Yes you are..." Shastan replied, a bit off guard. "I found the road, so I won the bet."  
"The bet is still on," Ladril looked at the road with a smile. "...Because I bet you can't find which way is South."   
Shastan opened his mouth, looked in either direction of the road, looked up at the overcast sky, and left his jaw hanging. He stared in one direction, then the other, and after a while all he could do was throw his pack down and loudly curse while the ranger became weak with laughter.

(For the validity of the name "Swerting," see Sam's comment in the fourth to last paragraph in "The Black Gate Is Closed," _The Two Towers_.)


	6. Chapter 6: The Brand

**Two Sides of a Coin**

Chapter 6: The Brand

_All was quiet in the camp and a foreboding wind cut through the night air. But this did not bother Ladril, for tonight a messenger from the South Ithilien regiment was due to arrive. Ladril had heard nothing from Belegorn for two weeks; at least when the messenger comes he will have some news of him.  
After an eternity of waiting outside his tent, Ladril finally heard the beats of a horse entering the camp. He sprang up and followed the sound. When he finally caught sight of the messenger, he was surprised to see him bore right through the camp and bolt into the Captain's tent.  
Baited with curiosity, Ladril stealthily crept towards the quarters of the Captain. Whatever the messenger had to report, it was obviously urgent. Ladril was close enough to hear muffled voices when suddenly, to his surprise and dismay, the Captain himself opened the flap of his tent.  
The young ranger froze as he looked into the eyes of his superior. The Captain's face was not enraged or scornful to find Ladril eavesdropping, rather he was solemn and quiet.  
"I was just about to summon you, Ladril." The Captain said. "Please come inside."  
Ladril was surprised the Captain knew his name, let alone desired to summon him. The ranger awkwardly entered the tent. Apart from the fine rugs and table of maps, Ladril saw the messenger standing in the corner: still red faced from the cold and breathless from his ride.  
The Captain sat at his table while Ladril stood a respectful distance away.   
"Ladril..." The elder man started, as if not sure where to begin. "How long have you been in the service of Ithilien?"   
"Nearly a month, sir."  
"And why did you decide to enter the service?"  
Ladril paused at the oddity of the question. "...It was Belegorn mostly, sir. It was our desire to join the regiments together."  
The Captain hesitated, still at loss for the right words. "…You may not know this, but Belegorn and I were good friends in our youth, so I have always felt responsible for you. And…given the message I have just received…I feel it is my duty as your officer, and as a friend, to tell you…"   
"…What happened? Where is Belegorn?" The young man asked, though his heart already knew the answer.  
"Ladril," The Captain said. "...Your brother is dead."_

Ladril woke with a jolt, feeling sick to his stomach. It was dawn and the forest was unearthly still. The light played on the pebbles of the highway, making it gleam like a white ribbon in the woods. The ranger slowly rolled over and saw Shastan busy over a fire pit. He turned his head back and stared miserably at the pale sky, wishing more than anything that he was dead.  
...Death had to be better than his present situation.   
"Laa-deril!" Shastan called. "Wake up and eat your breeaakfast!"  
Ladril loudly groaned and pulled himself up. The jingling shackles reminded him that, despite all hopes, he was _still _a slave. The ranger stumbled over to the fire pit, and unceremoniously plopped himself down before the Swerting.  
"I found which way is South," Shastan said proudly as he handed him breakfast.  
"That's nice," Ladril mumbled.

Shastan watched for a moment as the ranger sighed and stared at his food.  
"...Is that a habit of yours?"  
"What?"  
"To wake up every morning eerily depressed?"  
"Being a slave is not a pleasant experience, you know."  
"You've been having it easy," Shastan speculated. "I should have made _you_ wake up early and prepare breakfast."  
"Then why didn't you?"   
Ladril looked up from his meal and saw that the Swerting would not answer his question.  
"...I see," Ladril sneered. "You have finally figured out that orders will not work on me. You can command, insult, even threaten me with death; I will not be moved. In fact I would welcome death right now if you had the mind to deal it to me."  
"What good are you to me dead?" Shastan asked simply.  
"True. That would be one less slave for your poor mother."  
"That would be _no_ slave for my poor mother."  
"What? You haven't any slaves in your household? I imagined you to be of high standing among your folk."  
"My folk do not own slaves."

Ladril gaped at the Swerting in shock. "But..._why_ did you enslave me then?!"  
"I do not care about my people's consent in this matter," Shastan said. "I wished to procure a slave and I did so. You needn't know more than that."  
"But you don't even know what to do with me!"  
"When I figure out what a master is supposed to do with a slave, I will see that it's done!"  
"Until then," Ladril muttered. "You get to leave me alone."  
"Until then," Shastan coldly replied. "You get to stop giving _me_ orders."

The two men remained in a sour mood through the rest of breakfast. When they gathered the supplies and started on their journey, the mood followed them. As the day wore on and the travel grew weary on the dusty road, the men's ill temperament did not ease; rather it boiled under the hot afternoon sun. During midday they stopped to rest by a tree brimming with blossoming eaves, then the frustrated glares and ill silence was decisively broken by the ranger.  
"Can you _please_ take my shackles off?"   
"_No_," Shastan replied flatly.  
"But they're driving me insane."  
"Then at least you are preoccupied."  
"-And they also prevent me from doing the labor a slave ought to do, such as cooking your precious _breakfast_."   
"Just as well," Shastan mumbled. "I bet you can't cook anyway."  
"What? I _told_ you I can cook a little."  
"Oh I suppose you can warm up the occasional crust of stale bread, but when it comes to surviving in the wild day to day, you would _starve_ without me."  
"Then who has made who the slave?"  
Shastan became positively livid. "Being your master has been nothing but a foul curse!"   
"Then _release me_!"  
"So you can go on your merry way? Oh no, not until you have tasted what a slave really endures! Why I have a good mind to drag you on your feet and..." Shastan stopped.

"...And what?"  
But the Swerting held up a hand for silence. He craned his neck towards a large hill across the road. Ladril could see his muscles tensing.  
"...Did you hear something?" The ranger whispered as he stared at the hill. The Swerting did not reply, but slowly rose to his feet. Crouched down he crossed the road and crept up the hill. When he reached the crest, he warily peeked over.  
"Laaderil!" He hissed urgently.  
"_Ladril_."  
"Whatever. Get up here and see this!"

The ranger carefully made his way up the slope and joined Shastan at the ridge. He looked down at a shallow valley and felt his heart drop to his stomach. There, nestled under a clump of heavily shaded trees, was a horde of snarling, gruesome orcs.

Ladril dropped his head lower, but continued to watch as the foul creatures scuttled back and forth, bickering amongst themselves as they attempted to set up a camp. A few of them squabbled over fresh spoils, betraying to Ladril that they frequently attacked travelers on the road.  
Shastan looked at the creatures with bewilderment. "...What _are_ those things?"   
Ladril stared at the Swerting . "They are on _your_ side."  
"Are they?" Shastan studied the camp of orcs again, suddenly recollecting something. "Ah yes..._Kreshxes_."  
"What?"  
"Kreshxes. The monster-children of The Eye. At Home they say ten kreshxes spring to life with every breath the Dark Lord takes."  
"It would seem so. There are so many of the brutes now," Ladril sighed and decided he had observed the orcs long enough. "We're most fortunate they were not watching the road when we came. We should go now, if we want to be a good distance away when night falls."

The ranger turned to go back down the hill. Then he noticed, to his surprise and great alarm, that Shastan had a rock in his hand and was taking aim at one of the orcs below.

"What are you _doing_?" Ladril nearly cried.  
"I want to see if the stories are true," Shastan stated.  
"_What_ stories?"  
"The ones told in my homeland. They say the Dark Lord surrounds his Kreshxes with shields of magic so an enemy's blow cannot touch them. If the stories are true, then this rock should bounce right off."  
"Don't be stupid. That rock is _not_ going to bounce off."  
"Yes it will. Watch..." Shastan raised the rock and took aim again.  
"Shastan, don't!" Ladril sharply whispered. "It's going to hit them and we'll have twenty orcs after us!"  
"The rock will not even _touch_ them. They're protected by powerful-"  
"Will you _shut up_ about that? They are not protected by magic!"  
"How do you know? Have you ever encountered a Kreshxe before?"   
Ladril paused. Now that he thought about it, he really hadn't. His regiment never crossed any orcs in Ithilien, so all he knew concerning those creatures was what he heard at home. But everyone knew the Lord of Mordor was full of black magic. Perhaps his sorcery went indeed to such extent as to shield his minions from the blows of Men.

All the ranger could do was watch with sprouting curiosity as Shastan once again raised the rock and found his target. After a moment of baited breath, Shastan hurled his little missile into the valley.

The rock whistled through the air, and the two men watched its path intently. The rock flew into the orc camp and soundly struck the base of an orc's skull. The creature let out an agonizing howl and toppled forward, braying fowl curses.

Then all eyes turned to the two humans crouched atop the hill.

"Idiot," Ladril muttered to Shastan. The Swerting decided to keep his mouth shut as they both barreled back down the slope. In an instant the orcs leapt from their campsite in furious pursuit. By the time Shastan and Ladril reached the bottom of the hill the orcs had already passed its crest.  
"There is no way we can outrun them," Ladril said breathlessly.  
"And all we have is a hunting knife, so fighting is not an option," As Shastan said this he turned deathly pale. "...I am a dead man."  
"_You're_ a dead man? They're on your side, remember? _I'm_ the one they are going to kill!"  
Nothing more could be said, for by this time the horde of orcs had finished lumbering down the slope. Now they stopped a few feet before their prey, flashing their snarled teeth and their long knives.  
"Which one?!" A bigger orc growled. "Which one of ye threw that rock?!"

There was a long silence as the two men stood frozen stiff before the blood-thirsty creatures. The orcs sneered and cursed, displaying their impatience for a reply. As Ladril searched in his frenzied mind for a possible answer, he felt a Swerting's hand deliver a hard smack to the side of his head.  
"_Idiot_," Shastan said. "How many times have I told you not to throw rocks?!" He accordingly turned to the orcs. "I am so sorry about that. My slave can be such a nuisance at times."  
All the creatures gave a fiendish glare at Ladril and would have ripped him apart, if Shastan's arm hadn't barred the way.  
"I am sure this poor wretch deserves whatever you fellows wish to give him," Shastan said calmly. "But he is _my_ property and thus he cannot be harmed."

Ladril rubbed his head and glared at the Swerting coldly.  
"And who are _ye_?" The orcs snapped at Shastan.  
"I am Shastan of Western Kisha'rut. And I am...on your side?"  
A few orcs leaned in and gave the Swerting a whiff. "Garn!" They spat. "He's one of them Southlings. We'd have our throats cut if we so much as touch 'im!"   
Shastan felt very relieved at this, but the bigger of the brutes was not so moved. He studied Ladril with a sharp eye.  
"...He's your slave, eh?"  
"Shackled him myself," Shastan said confidently.  
The beast moved in closer, and Ladril felt short of withering under his yellow eyes and coarse breath.  
"Then you tell me somethin', Southling," The brute grated through his gleaming fangs. "If he's yer slave, then where's his brand?"   
"His brand?" Shastan asked in puzzlement.  
"Yeah, his brand that says he belongs to ye."  
"I only got him a couple days ago."  
"But that's what a master does with his slave," The big orc gave a snarled grin. "...He brands 'em."  
Ladril audibly gulped, but Shastan remained calm. "I will do that when I reach Home."  
"You'll do that _now!_"

All the foul creatures cheered at this promising entertainment and quickly seized the ranger. Roughly they shoved Ladril and Shastan up the hill and down the other side, back to their horrid campsite.

The two men were quickly separated and Ladril was brought to a short, withered tree growing beside a flat rock. Swiftly the orcs kicked the ranger to his knees and made him hunch over one side of the rock as they looped the chain of his shackles over the tree's branches on the other side. They then rolled back his sleeves, and here the Gondorrim sat: tied to the dead tree with his exposed arms stretched across the rock face.  
In the corner of his eye Ladril could see other orcs clumped around their camp fire, trying to turn it into a roaring flame. Over the pit an orc was heating up a cooking rod.

Ladril's branding iron.  
The ranger's eyes quickly shifted to Shastan. All the Swerting could do at the moment was just watch the spectacle. But he was working out a plan, Ladril knew. Once the rod was fully heated and offered to Shastan, he would do some clever talking and get Ladril out of this mess.  
More logs were thrown into the fire pit, sending sparks and ash whirling in the air. As the rod began to heat up, doubt and fear began to prey on the ranger's courage. The creatures were snarling louder and louder with delight as the rod grew hotter. If the orcs got too riled up about the branding, it would be impossible for Shastan to dissuade them. Suddenly a horrid thought crept into Ladril's mind.  
What if Shastan _wanted_ to brand him?

The ranger tried to press the idea away, but it returned with a vengeance. Ladril had insulted and jeered the Swerting every step of their journey. Why _wouldn't_ Shastan want to brand him? It would be the ultimate lesson for the defiant slave.  
Ladril began to feel knots in his stomach. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He had only wanted his freedom, but he shouldn't have been so hard on Shastan...  
A clamor of howls and cheers signaled the rod was now scorching hot. The orc horde cleared back, and Ladril grew sick when he saw the hot, white tip of the iron as it was raised from the fire. The bigger orc took the rod and offered its wooden end to Shastan.  
Shastan took it without a word.

The sun was disappearing amidst black clouds as the orcs roared with delight. The Swerting turned towards his slave. Ladril, completely ill with fear, could only see Shastan as an approaching blur holding a glowing white beam.  
The orcs grouped around in the fading sunlight, sneering and beating their chests with excitement. Then in one horrid voice they began to roar "Brand him! Brand him!"  
Shastan stood before the ranger, who was helplessly chained to the dead tree: his pale arms exposed across the flat rock. The orcs huddled around closer, but Shastan suddenly said "Get to one side! You are blocking out the light!"  
The creatures consented and hastily regrouped behind him.

"...I have to see what I am doing," the Swerting muttered.  
The hot iron was raised, and Ladril in his unraveling mind thought back to a poem he recited as a child:

_If stranger begs I'll give him some  
though he's from different lands.  
For who knows in the days to come  
if I'll be in stranger's hands?_

Ladril now squirmed uncontrollably, but Shastan grabbed his arm and held it firmly in place. He lifted the rod, and bore it straight down.  
Ladril squeezed his eyes shut and cried out loud. The heat! The hot, searing, unbearable-  
...But not as hot as he imagined.  
Ladril opened an eye, and saw the iron struck an inch above his arm, scorching the rock. The heat was nearly blistering his skin, but the rod did not touch him.  
Ladril stared dumbfounded, but a sharp pinch on his arm from Shastan signaled he needed to scream for pretense. Pulling himself together, the ranger gave an agonized howl, then writhed and wailed for good measure. The orcs guffawed and cheered at his supposed torment. "That's it! Sign yer name in 'em!" They cried.  
Shastan hovered closely over Ladril so they could not see what he was doing, but since the orcs took such delight in the man's wailing, it mattered little. At length Shastan raised the rod and took out a piece of cloth. The orcs rushed forward, but before they could view Shastan's "handiwork" on Ladril's skin, the Swerting had wrapped the cloth around Ladril's arm as if to keep the burn from bleeding. The man turned to the bigger orc and returned the cooking rod. "My thanks to you for lending me this," Shastan said. "I certainly hope it has taught my slave a lesson."

Ladril was overwhelmed with exhaustion, relief, and a twinge of guilt. He could have been branded, he probably _deserved _to be branded, but Shastan spared him. Ladril felt completely senseless as Shastan conversed with the orcs for some time. Then he felt himself being lifted up, his shackles disentangled from the branches, and before the ranger knew it he was hobbling with the Swerting up the hill and down the other side, away from the orc camp.

After they had picked up their things, the two men traveled south until the sun was fully covered by the clouds and it began to rain. They found a dry haven under a thick tree, and there set camp. Ladril noticed that Shastan had not spoken a word since that afternoon, and appeared to be avoiding him.  
"I underestimated you, Shastan." Ladril said at length. "You spared me from a great ordeal when you did not have to." Then the ranger smiled. "Perhaps we are not so different, you and I."   
The Swerting spun on the ranger. "If our places were exchanged, would you have spared me?"  
The answer was obvious enough. But before Ladril could open his mouth, a picture raced across his mind. He imagined himself holding the rod…a Southron on the ground in chains...  
Perfect vengeance...  
Ladril jolted from the image, surprised at himself for even thinking that.  
"Ah, so you see Master Laaderil," Shastan said bitterly. "We are _very_ different."


	7. Chapter 7: Blind Judgement

Two Sides of a Coin

Chapter Seven: Blind Judgement

"The real voyage of discovery consists not in making new landscapes but in having new eyes." _-Marcel Proust_

Shastan stirred, opened his eyes, then came to the horrible realization he had overslept. It was already midmorning and too late to prepare breakfast before traveling. Shastan was about to groan over the prospect of journeying the whole day without food in his stomach, when suddenly he smelled smoke.  
The Swerting sat up to see a small fire some yards away with a pot heating over it. As if in answer to Shastan's puzzlement, Ladril returned to the pot with a ladle and gave the contents a quick stir.  
He was cooking breakfast.  
Shastan blinked, rubbed his eyes, and blinked again. In response Ladril looked up and gave a sly grin.  
"Shaaastan!" He piped. "Wake up and eat your breeaakfast!"  
Shastan pulled himself off his mat, but as he approached the fire pit he was still completely baffled.  
"I thought you refused to do slave work."  
"This is not 'slave work'." Ladril retorted. "This is 'performing a service out of gratitude'. You want to eat?"  
At length the Swerting nodded and sat himself down, taking a bowl of soup as Ladril handed it to him. He took a taste while the ranger turned back and served himself.  
"...Not bad," Shastan commented.  
"Indeed, considering I had no idea what I was doing," Ladril admitted. "You carry a vast amount of spices I've never seen before."  
"They come from my Home, that's why. Fresh grinds from special desert plants. They are a lot stronger than the spices your folk use."  
The ranger was about to nod, but quickly he looked up. "How do you know what spices we use? You mean to say you have had our food before?"  
Shastan turned away and did not answer.  
"...Fine." Ladril finally said. "I will just add 'enigma' to the growing list of your oddities. And speaking of oddities, what on earth is _that_?"

Shastan saw that Ladril was pointing to a fine, long rod propped against the tree. Its tip boasted a broad spearhead and a thick, red tassel.  
"A ceremonial spear," Shastan said in answer.  
"Yes but where did it _come_ from?"  
"I saw it in a pile of loot at the orc camp yesterday, so I bartered for it while you were still tied to the tree."  
Ladril's jaw dropped. "You bartered with _orcs?_"  
"...I should rather say I _spooked_ them into giving me the spear," Shastan smirked in reminiscence. "Since it came from my Homeland, I convinced the orcs that some dead Swerting will haunt them until he retrieved his weapon. They kept insisting they found the spear by the road, but they got scared enough and handed it to me."  
"But what would you want with a spear? It is no use to us in the wild," Ladril insisted.  
"It is if we meet more orcs."  
"Yes, but if you throw it and miss-"  
"Basra's Exalted Name!" Shastan cried, thoroughly appalled. "You do not _throw_ a spear!"  
Ladril stared. "...I give up. What are you _supposed_ to do with it then?"  
"Well..." Shastan pondered a moment. "I suppose I will just have to show you sometime." With that the Swerting finished the last bit of his soup. "This was very good. I shall look forward to breakfast tomorrow."  
"That is where I'll make a deal with you."  
"What deal?"  
"I will make you all the breakfasts you want from now on, providing you unshackle me."  
"_No,_" Was the flat reply.  
"Stubborn!" Ladril spat. "Always stubborn, that's what you "Swertings" are! You will not cooperate and you will not listen! I cannot imagine how our two countries could ever get along!"  
Shastan thought a moment. "...Then it makes sense that we are at war."  
Ladril was about to refute him, but then considered this statement. After silently conceding, all argument ceased between the two men for the rest of the morning. Their things had yet to be packed and the journey ahead promised to be very long indeed.

The road cut into a cool forest, which made most of the traveling quite pleasant. But in the woods' silence Ladril felt uneasy; every step they took on the gravel road seemed to alert every creature to their presence. Having made only a narrow escape with the orcs a day before, the ranger felt they ought to be especially cautious.  
"We are inot/i getting off the road," Was Shastan's answer when Ladril voiced his suggestion. "Do you want us to get lost again?"  
"I thought you had a knack for finding your way."  
"I had a knack for finding the _road_. And now that I am on it, I am staying on it." Then the Swerting smiled. "You still owe me half of your country, by the way."  
"If you think I was actually _serious_ about that-"  
Shastan quickly held up a hand for silence.  
"...Did you hear something again?" Ladril whispered. "How is it you always hear better than me?"  
"Don't hear," Shastan said. "_Smell_."  
The ranger took a whiff of the air. To his surprise he smelled smoke. Smoke was coming from up the road, where it curved away from view.

The two men stared after it warily.  
"I'll go-"  
"You can't go, it's too dangerous-"  
"Well _you're_ tied up-"  
"If you unshackled me like I told you-"  
"Just stay here. I'll go off the road-"  
"_Now_ you'll go off the road?"  
"-And sneak up from the side. That will put them off guard-"  
"-Unless they are expecting it."  
"I'm going."  
"And I'm coming."  
"_Fine_."

The Swerting and the ranger hid their heavy packs by the wayside and slid into the forest. They followed where the road curved and the smell of smoke grew stronger as they crept along. Shastan, with a firm grip on his spear, peered cautiously over a bush and received a full view of the smoke's source.  
"Well? What is it?" Ladril asked.  
"A campfire on the road."  
"Filthy orc-vermin," The ranger hissed in disgust. "Are no roads safe anymore?"  
"Well," Shastan turned to Ladril. "I wouldn't call an old man 'orc-vermin'."  
Ladril blinked. "...What?"

The ranger peered over the bush also, and there indeed was an old man sitting in the middle of the road, dressed in nothing but rags and tending a frail fire.  
"We got worked up for nothing," Shastan commented. "Should we talk to him?""I think we ought to remain wary," The ranger admonished. "We still do not know what side he's on."  
Shastan stared at Ladril. "...I think either way he is an enemy to one of us."  
Ladril thought a moment. "All right that's true. But what I meant to say was-"  
"-When you two are done bickering," The old man called. "I will invite both of you...or one of you, or none at all, to share my fire. Depending on if you two feel like finishing each other off before finishing with me."  
Shastan and Ladril stared at the ragged man.  
"Ah, bandits are not so hesitant," The old man speculated. "Which implies that you are the opposite. Therefore come sit and bicker no more."

After a moment the two youths stepped out of the brush and onto the road. The old man remained unmoved, his eyes still fixed downward.  
"Who are you?" Ladril demanded.  
"No one, sir." Was the answer.  
"From what country are you?"  
"No One belongs to no country."  
"What side are you for? Gondor or Mordor?"  
"No One is on neither side."  
There was a confused pause.  
"...And _you_ are No One?" Shastan tried.  
"As I said, sir."  
"Do you jest with us?"  
"On the contrary, I speak quite plainly. No One belongs to no country and No One is on neither side. Furthermore, No One is honest and these days No One shows much tolerance."  
"Just what are you getting at?"  
"No One knows."

Shastan gave up on the whole matter, but Ladril remained persistent.  
"Could you...tell us something iwe/i should know?"  
"Ah! Glad you asked," The old man pointed directly behind him. "There is a spring of clear water some fifty paces that way. That is something you ought to know."  
"Splendid!" Shastan said. "I am going back to get our flasks, then."  
"What should _I_ do?" The ranger asked.  
"You can stay with this fellow," Shastan smiled and turned to the old man. "You will look after him, won't you sir?"  
"If he requires looking after." The fellow answered.  
With that Shastan trotted back down the road. Ladril grumbled and sat next to the ragged man, who was still tending his fire.  
"Are you just insane, or were you actually trying to be insightful?" The ranger finally inquired.  
"What one man may label as lunacy another man could prize as philosophic. Insanity and insight are, like so many other things, two sides of the same coin."  
After Ladril consented at length, the old man leaned towards him and nodded in the direction Shastan had gone.  
"What do you think of that fellow you travel with?"   
"...Do you want me to be honest?"  
"That and nothing else."  
Ladril looked down the road contemptuously. "I think he's an idiot."  
"Interesting," The fellow nodded. "You know what one man may call an idiot-"  
"-Will you please stop that? I cannot stand silly metaphors."  
The old man shrugged. "Very well...why do you follow him, then?"  
"For apparent reasons," Ladril displayed his shackles before the old man, but he paid them no heed.  
"What's the _real_ reason you follow him?"  
This caught the ranger off guard. His thoughts went back to the night he was trapped in the pit, and when he was at the mercy of a branding iron.  
"I suppose..." He said at last. "I suppose I am indebted to him."  
"For being indebted, it sounds like you do not get along with him."  
"How can I? He's always acting indifferent and elusive-"  
"Like he has a secret?"  
"...Him? Not really. He's not one to harbor secrets."  
"Aren't you?"  
Ladril gave a startled pause. "...Yes. But he would not understand."  
"Why not?"  
"Come now, even _you_ can see we are utterly different! We simply cannot think the same way!"

At this moment Shastan returned, having chosen to lug the heavy packs along with the flasks. He dropped the bags and plopped down in exhaustion.  
"Here Laaderil," He tossed the flasks to the ranger. "You get the water."  
Ladril raised a brow. "You actually trust I won't run off?"  
"Of course," Shastan patted the bags. "Because _I_ have got all the food."  
The ranger huffed and trudged into the woods. When he was far from view, Shastan turned to the old man.   
"Well? What has he been saying about me?"  
"He says you two do not think the same," The man replied.  
"Isn't that the truth."  
Shastan rested back with an arm propped under him while the old man leaned forward and asked "What do you think of that fellow?"  
"Honestly?"  
The ragged man nodded.  
"I think he's an idiot."   
"...Really?" The fellow slowly nodded. "Interesting. I was just saying what one man may call an idiot-"  
"You are not going to be metaphoric, are you?"  
The old man stopped. "Can't stand metaphors, eh?"  
"No."  
"All right..." The old man rolled back his torn sleeves. "Why do you travel with him, then?"

"Simple. Because he owes me his services. I saved his life, you know." Here Shastan sighed. "-Although he is making _mine_ rather difficult."  
"You do not get along with him?"  
"How can I? He babbles and babbles about practically nothing. It's as if-"  
"-He has a secret?"  
"Why on earth would Laaderil have a secret?"  
"Don't you?"  
Shastan hesitated. "...Yes. But he would never understand."  
"Why not?"  
"Because it's just as Laaderil said. We cannot think the same way!"

At this time Ladril came back with the flasks nearly brimming. He handed one to Shastan, and both men took a moment to enjoy the refreshing spring water.  
"Can I offer you two a word of advice before you depart?" The old man asked.  
"Certainly," Ladril said, wiping his mouth.  
The old man sagely cleared his throat. "There may be moments when you do not understand each other, but with time and patience those difficulties will pass. That is the miracle: no matter how dark things get, brothers always pull through."

There was stark silence as the words filtered in, then the Swerting and the ranger violently choked and spat out their water.  
"--You think...we're _brothers?!_" Shastan cried.  
"Ah, yes!" The ragged man clapped his hands as if he won a game. "I am clever aren't I? I figured out you two were related before you could even tell me!"  
"But he's a...and _I'm_ a..." Ladril pointed between himself and the Swerting in utter bafflement, but a sharp glance from Shastan conveyed that the old man was obviously crazy.  
"...Well we really must be going," Shastan quickly gathered up the bags. "Thank you for your advice. We shall reflect on that thoroughly."  
"No trouble at all," The man cheerfully smiled.  
"_Grab your things and run,_" The Swerting muttered to Ladril and then bolted up the road. Ladril was about to follow in suit, but paused a moment while looking at the old man. He quietly leaned down and waved a hand in front of the fellow's face. Finally understanding, he now ran to catch up with Shastan.  
"Can you believe that?" Shastan said once they were out of earshot. "I should have known from the start. The man is absolutely crazy!"  
"He's not crazy," Ladril stated. "He's blind."  
The Swerting stopped in his tracks. "...What?"  
"He's _blind_, Shastan. I checked myself. He didn't know I was a Gondorrim and he didn't know you were a Swerting!"  
Shastan thought reflectively. "And he called us brothers."  
Ladril hesitated, then nodded.

...There was an awkward silence.

"He's still crazy." Shastan concluded.  
"Yes. Absolutely." The ranger quickly concurred.  
With that they continued on their journey.


	8. Chapter 8: Shastan's Past

**Two Sides of a Coin**

**Chapter Eight: Shastan's Past**

**author's note:** I am sorry I haven't written in a while! College tends to melt one's brain, and the fact that finals are coming up doesn't help much. But I'll return to posting once a week now, promise! And as show of good faith, here's two more chapters of the story. Be sure to read chapter 7! Btw: I never got to thank you guys for your wonderful reviews! You all are what helps me continue writing! Thanks!

"Let all Men know thee, but no man know thee thoroughly: Men freely ford that see the shallows ." _Benjamin Franklin_

Shastan and Ladril had spent the rest of the day traveling on the road and camped early for the night. Now it was morning and they were packing once again for the long journey ahead. As Ladril tightened the satchel on his bag, he was hit by a shocking realization.

The two men had not fought all morning.

The ranger could not help but wonder at this. Was it due to the fact they barely spoke since breakfast, or were all the pointless arguments really behind them now?

As Ladril reflected on this he felt a sharp pain in his wrists. Wearily he looked down and inspected the shackles, which had rubbed into his skin and now bit into his flesh. If he and Shastan were really past fighting, the Swerting would have unshackled Ladril and spared him this pain. But Shastan was obviously adamant about keeping him in chains.

If only he could find out why.

The sun was climbing, and the two men started their trek on the long, dusty road. The dark forest was far behind them and the road now cut its way through grassy hills in a broad, sunny plain.  
After traveling in silence for some time, Ladril finally spoke.  
"Shastan?"  
"Yes?"  
"...I really don't want to go to Kisha'rut."  
"...I know..."  
"Can't we come to a negotiation or something? You know I will dig in my heels the whole way South, and I'll make a terrible slave. I could compensate you somehow if you set me free...how about it?"  
Shastan was about to consider Ladril's request, but he realized what he was doing and quickly snapped "A master does not adhere to his slave."  
This startled Ladril into silence. He would have reproved Shastan's severe remark, but he wasn't about to admit that a Southron had hurt his feelings. What was wrong with Shastan, anyway? He was always pleasant about everything, but when it came shackles and negotiating Ladril's freedom he was a stubborn boar. There was no understanding him. There was no _putting up_ with him.

Meanwhile, there was a long moment in which Shastan recalled his harsh words and quietly regretted saying them.

"...I planned a few strategies if we get caught up with further encounters on the road," The Swerting said at length, hoping light conversation would change the mood.  
"Such as?" The ranger asked with little interest.  
"If we meet orcs, I will act tough with you and we'll hurry past them. If we see a fellow we do not know, we'll get off the road and go around. If we meet a band of Swertings, I'll just throw them a nod and they will let us by."  
Ladril looked up. "What if we meet an Ithilien regiment?"  
"We'll dive behind a rock, I suppose. But what are the odds of that happening?"  
"Pretty good I'd say, because here they come."

Shastan's head snapped up. Straight ahead, where the road climbed over another hill crest, stood the front line of an Ithilien regiment gazing down at the plains.

"...And it looks like they see us," Ladril commented.  
Indeed, the front line was now staring down in puzzlement at the two men, though at this distance they could only be discerned as blurred figures.  
Ladril turned to Shastan, expecting him to dive under some rock. But Shastan, knowing they have been marked by the Ithilien troop, gripped his spear and readied himself.  
"What are you doing?" Ladril asked in alarm.  
"Preparing to fight," Was the reply.  
"Shastan you idiot! You can't fight them all!"  
"Then I will die trying."  
The ranger was surprised, but admired the man's grim determination. He was neither angry nor spiteful at his current fortune, but was resolved to whatever fate would deal him.  
...Even if it meant death.

Ladril looked at the regiment, then at Shastan. He could just stand back, rejoin the troops as a free man and let the soldiers arrest the Swerting. But then...what would happen to him? Ladril knew he really shouldn't care, since he was the enemy and this was War.  
But Shastan really wasn't the enemy. He was...Shastan. A polite, albeit extremely superstitious and ridiculously far too pleasant, "Swerting". And now he was bracing himself for whatever fate the Ithilien regiment would contrive for him.  
Ladril's conscience quickly decided he would not let that happen.

"Listen," Ladril began as the regiment's second line now peered over the hill and observed the two strangers. "...I have an idea, but you have to do exactly as I say."  
Shastan remained unmoved.  
"Shastan, this will save your life!"  
The Swerting finally lowered his spear. "Fine. What is it?"  
"Unshackle me."  
"_No_."  
"You know you don't have a choice."  
Shastan hesitated, looking at Ladril and then the Ithilien ranks. Finally, cursing under his breath, he pulled out a small key from around his neck and fit it into the lock of the shackles. With a click they unclasped and fell to the ground.  
Ladril rubbed his sore wrists and thanked the Valar he was no longer in chains. He wanted to kick the shackles as far away as he could, but he needed them for his plan.  
Picking them up, he reached for Shastan's wrists. Shastan sprang back as if the shackles were hot coals.  
"What are you _doing_?!"  
"Just put these on. I'm pretending you are my prisoner."  
"I am _not_ your prisoner!"  
"I know. We're _pretending_ until we pass the regiment. Just give me the key and put them on-"  
"I am not putting them on!"  
"Shastan we do not have time! They're coming-"  
The Swerting and the ranger looked back at the hill as the regiment began marching down the slope to meet the two men.  
Ladril tried to move for Shastan's wrists again, but he sharply tugged his hands away. "I said NO!"  
"I'll take them off the moment we pass the regiment! You have to trust me!"

"Trust _you?_ You want me to be a slave!"

"I never said that!"

"It's in your eyes! I can tell!"  
"If you don't do this you'll die!"  
"That's better than being in chains!"  
"Put them on!"  
"No!"

"Do it, you stupid stubborn Southron!"

"I _won't_ be a slave!"  
"Shastan-"  
"_No!"_

"_Shastan!"_

"NOT AGAIN!"

There was startled silence. Ladril could only stare in bewilderment, while Shastan resolved to keep his head erect; despite the fact it was now flushed and shamed.  
_Sweet Valar, what has this man been through?_ Ladril could not help but wonder. Then, remembering time was against them, the ranger held the shackles in front of the Swerting and said in a firm voice "Shastan, you are either captive to me for a moment or captive to the Ithilien Guard for the rest of your life. Now choose!"

Shastan's eyes refused to meet the shackles, but finally he nodded. With the regiment nearly in clear sight, Ladril hurriedly took Shastan's key and clasped the cuffs around his wrists, noting that the Swerting visibly shuttered. There was only just enough time for Ladril to pick up the spear and prod Shastan along before the Ithilien regiment came upon them. There were ranks upon ranks of armed rangers, a banner of the White Tree fluttering before them. The Captain of the regiment stepped solidly forward while the flanks watched from their lines in curiosity.  
"What regiment do you report to, ranger?" The Captain acknowledged Ladril.  
"The Northeast Regiment, sir." He quickly replied.  
"But you are heading south, far from any regiment," The Captain's eyes shifted suspiciously to Shastan. "Why do you travel with this man?"  
"He is my prisoner, caught in one of the northern skirmishes. I am now delivering him to the regiment in the...southwest." He finished rather lamely.  
The Captain raised a brow. "Why on earth would you be doing that?"  
_Think Ladril, think._ The ranger fumbled a bit, then quickly said "There is a...ranger, sir, in that regiment who knows the Swert-- _Southron_ speech. He is to interrogate this savage and obtain information concerning the Enemy's plans."  
The Captain studied Shastan and slowly nodded, but when Ladril glanced at the Swerting he was greatly alarmed: the blood was draining from Shastan's face and it seemed that hundreds of nightmares or dark memories were besieging him as he stared down at the shackles.  
"Still," The Captain concluded. "There is no sense in having only one ranger escort a captive in the wild. I will send a few men to accompany you southwest."

Ladril nervously bit his lip. He didn't plan on this happening. The Captain turned and selected a few broad-shouldered men, but as they stepped forward Ladril looked at Shastan's sick complexion and was struck with an idea.  
"Plague!" His voice rang out. "The Southron is riddled with a desert plague!"  
The entire front line jumped back in fear, including the Captain. There was dead silence throughout the troops.  
"The...Ithilien Guard can only afford to spare one man for the job," Ladril explained. "I am sure you understand, sir."  
The Captain nodded, but was astonished. "You willingly risk your life to see this Southron delivered to the Southwest Regiment? Never have I seen such valor in a ranger!"  
"Er...yes," Ladril coughed. "Well...we have to leave now, time is pressing you know." With that he began to yank the pale Shastan away.  
"What do you think you are _doing?_" The Captain shouted after them.

Ladril stopped and felt his blood freeze. "We're…uh…going to-"

"It will not profit you to lead your captive with _that_," The Captain said, referring to the spear in Ladril's hand. "You will be without a weapon if you throw it and miss!"  
Ladril could almost feel Shastan grimacing behind him. The Captain meanwhile turned to his horse and untied a scabbard from the saddle. He tossed it to Ladril, and his eyes grew wide when he saw the sword's fine craftsmanship.  
"Thank you, sir," Was all the ranger could say.  
"Thank _you_ for the service to your country," The Captain answered with a firm salute.

Rather than contemplating the great irony in the statement and becoming riddled with guilt, Ladril continued to lead Shastan down the road. They did not stop until they were far from the regiment, which had turned and resumed their march in the other direction. When the troops were out of Ladril's farthest sight, he kept his promise and took off Shastan's chains. By now the Swerting was calm and was retaining his color.  
"Thank you...I'm sorry, Laaderil."  
That was all he said. He just turned and continued down the road as if nothing changed. But something _had_ changed: Ladril was free, and thanks to the Captain's sword he was now armed. He could walk away right now, owing nothing to Shastan, and catch up with the Ithilien troop. But as he watched the departing Swerting he felt…concerned.

_No, not concerned, _Ladril scolded his thoughts, _simply curious_. But it was an impelling curiosity nonetheless. Impelling enough to make his feet walk without instruction from his brain, and follow the direction Shastan had gone. Sighing to himself, the ranger knew he couldn't possibly leave Shastan until a few things had been explained. And so the previous captive followed after his previous captor, who did not stop and would not speak until nightfall.

The stars glittered overhead. A small fire was made, but food was not prepared and the camp was not set. Neither Shastan nor Ladril really cared. For a while they both stared at the fire, deep in thought, until Ladril felt it was finally time to end the silence.  
"Do you want to talk about it?" He asked the Swerting.  
Shastan shifted uneasily. "...I suppose I do owe you an explanation."  
"I didn't mean it that way. I meant it might help you if you talked to someone." Sweet Valar, did _he_ just say that? He could only press on. "…You've never told anyone you were once a slave, have you?"  
"...No," Shastan admitted after a pause. "But that doesn't mean you ought to be the one to learn my past. My story...you will not find it pleasant."  
"I can listen to anything."  
"Can you?" Shastan scoffed. It seemed he would simply leave it at that, spending the rest of the night in silence and keeping Ladril in the dark. But, to Ladril's surprise, the Swerting suddenly unfolded his story.

"…In my early years, my mother raised me in the desert. But drought and lack of food forced us to join a caravan. It took us to Umbar; a rather nasty place, but we managed to make a living there. One day, while we were at the ports trading with Cosairs, the coast was suddenly bombarded by terrible men with massive and deadly ships; they poured onto the barges like hungry locus. I can still remember...people running, such confusion, and then my mother and I were separated in the crowds. Being only a child, I fell easily into the enemy's hands. They took me, with many others, back on their ships and sailed away. I was enslaved in their lands and never saw my mother, or anything that resembled Home, again."

"That's terrible," Ladril said breathlessly. "I cannot imagine even savages stealing children like that. In what land were you enslaved?"  
Shastan stared at him, amazed that he did not understand. "I was enslaved in Gondor."

Ladril blinked. "...That cannot be true."  
"It is."  
"Gondor does not permit slavery! Any people we take in warfare are captives at best!"  
"Ah yes, they are captives. But then what? What do you do with prisoners of war that you have no use for? You can't turn them free, lest they have discovered a weakness in your country during their captivity. Most prisoners are put to work secretly, deep in mines or secluded mills. That was so in Gondor, and I spent most of my childhood working at a mill in a remote region of Belfalas."  
Ladril shook his head. "I still cannot believe it...I had no idea..."  
"I am sure no one else did either, not even your Steward," Shastan said assuringly. "These places were very secretive and my...'master,' was a man few people knew." Shastan said this with a bitter tone. "But I was a slave there all the same."  
"That is where you learned the Common Speech, isn't it?"  
Shastan nodded.  
"But you are free now. How did you escape?"  
"I didn't. I was set free. My 'master' was getting old and I suppose he didn't want to enter the next life knowing he was a slave owner. He concluded that all his deeds would be forgiven if he took what slaves he had and released them in Umbar. So that is what happened to me," Shastan shook his head in disdain. "Although I think he shall still meet condemnation anyway."  
"...And after you were released in Umbar, you went home." Ladril concluded.  
Shastan hesitated. "...Yes."   
His hesitation was long enough to be questionable.

Suddenly Ladril realized the truth, and he wondered why didn't see it before. "...No. You still hated Gondor didn't you? Even after your release you wanted to get even."   
Shastan lowered his eyes at this.  
"That is why you did not return home," Ladril continued. "That is why you joined your country's army. You felt you would not be avenged for the wrongs you've suffered until..." He looked at his raw, bitten wrists. "-until you obtained a slave of your own."  
Shastan was silent, then at length he said "...Well done, Laaderil."  
So that was it. Shastan was not the pleasant, thoroughly passive man he projected himself to be. He still felt anger, he still felt hurt, and he felt the need to be avenged.

Just like Ladril…

"But there is one thing that doesn't make sense," The ranger quickly said, before the thought could develop any further. "You enslaved me for revenge, and yet you treated me so kindly. I do not understand why."  
"Don't you?" Shastan's head snapped up. "Then I will tell you why, Laaderil. Every little thing you did reminded me of myself. You dug your heels in, resisted every step of the way, exactly as I did when _I_ was a slave. I could not ill-treat you because…it would have been like ill-treating me. It is the paramount of my frustrations: I have forsaken going home, traveled countless miles with my army, searched for a slave so I could be compensated for all my years spent in chains, and then I end up getting _you_." Shastan ruminated over this in sad amusement. "…which was just like enslaving a mirror."

Both men fell into silence, lost in their own thoughts. When the silence was broken again, it was done by Shastan.

"….What will you do now?"  
Ladril looked up. "Pardon?"

"You are free now and you are armed. I expect you'll rejoin your regiment in the North. Or will you go home instead?"  
"Neither," The ranger shook his head. "I've been thinking...what if I make a deal with you?"  
"When have you not?"  
Ladril laughed. "I have a feeling you will actually consider this one."  
"Let's hear it then."  
"If you journey to Kisha'rut alone, you are likely to run into another regiment and get arrested. I can escort you as far as the Crossings of Poros, in the very South of Gondor. The Ithilien Guard has no troops stationed beyond that point, and the Crossings of Poros will put you on the Harad Road. That will lead you straight home."  
Shastan stared at the ranger. "... Really? You would do that?"  
_Would _he do that? It could be seen as treason to his country. Escorting an enemy back into enemy territory went against the order of things; it contradicted the very conduct of War.

But Ladril couldn't help feeling that it was the most right thing to do.

"…Of course. I owe you for quite a lot of things already."  
"All right then," The Swerting happily got on his feet. "I accept your deal. We embark for the Crossings of Poros at dawn!"  
"It will take a few days, actually." Ladril stated.  
"...Then we embark on the journey for the Crossings of Poros at dawn!" Shastan corrected himself.  
Ladirl couldn't help but smile. About a week ago, traveling to the Crossings of Poros in the company of a Swerting was the last thing he expected to do.


	9. Chapter 9: A Haunted House

Two Sides of a Coin

**author's note: **regretfully, I couldn't find a quote to match the odd events of this chapter.

_Chapter 9: A Haunted House_

"What do you mean, you're not supposed to tell me?"  
A morning's journey on the hot road led the two men into a quiet forest. Ladril had decided to inquire Shastan as to why he adorned trinkets from men he defeated in battle, but the Swerting refused to properly answer the question.

"I am not allowed to reveal the purposes behind my people's actions," He explained.  
"So your entire culture believes in taking things from dead men?" Ladril asked.  
"From warriors we've defeated, yes."  
"...And you can't explain why they do that?"  
"It is a Higher Order that forbids me."  
"Oh...you mean it's sacred."  
"Yes."  
"My people would call it grave robbing."  
"Only if you look at the taken trinkets at face value."  
"I do not understand."

Shastan turned to the ranger. "Surely there was some trinket or jewelry in your life that you felt deeply attached to?"  
Ladril paused a moment and thought back, from his childhood in Minas Tirith to his enrollment in the Ithilien Guard. "...There was a medallion that I was rather fond of," He said at last. "I couldn't take my eyes off it for the longest time."  
"You still have it then?"  
"It wasn't mine. It belonged to Belegorn."  
"Ah..." Shastan said thoughtfully. "So this Belegorn is a relative, I assume."  
"...My brother," Ladril admitted. "The medallion was a gift to him when he became the lieutenant of a regiment. I rather envied how fine he looked when he put it on."

Shastan paused. "...Belegorn was stationed in Ithilien?"  
Ladril nodded and for a moment forgot the pain of reminiscing. "It was a rather novel idea among the troops: a popular lieutenant and his little brother both put in the Ithilien Guard...I only wish we were in the same regiment."  
"So where is he now?"  
Ladril's smile vanished as quickly as it came. He should not have brought Belegorn up. He did not want to even think about what happened that night...  
Shastan meanwhile was waiting for an answer. "...Laaderil? I said where is-"  
"I heard you."  
"Then will you not tell me?"  
He took a deep breath, then said resignedly "...He is dead."

...It seemed the woods and all the creatures in it went still as silence rang between the two men.   
"...I am sorry to hear it," Shastan finally said. "How did he die?"  
_Please don't ask me that..._ The ranger moaned in his head. But fortunately for him the conversation went no further, for Shastan suddenly halted, tensed, and held up a hand for silence.

"Did you hear something _again_?" Ladril whispered in exasperation. "Or is it something you smell this time?"  
The Swerting arched a brow. "Er...Laaderil? _Look_."

Ladril looked ahead and found a large abandoned cabin just off the road, glaring right at them between the trees.  
"Well done, Shastan," He muttered in embarrassment. "Let's keep moving."  
But Shastan was not listening. He swiftly cut through the brush and made for the cabin.  
"What are you doing?" Ladril cried.  
"Going in," Was the reply.  
The ranger's eyes shifted to the house's black, rotting wood and the utter darkness behind the cracked window panes.  
"...You want to go in _that?_"  
"Yes. Are you coming?"  
Ladril sighed wearily. After all their ventures, he learned that it was pointless to argue whenever Shastan had an impulse. So he simply trudged after him as he entered the eerie, abandoned settlement.

Both men stood in the doorway and looked apprehensively into the gaping darkness. "After you," Ladril said.  
"What is this house even doing here?" Shastan wondered.  
"There were once farming settlements throughout Ithilien, but as the war worsened the people had to abandon them. This house must have been abandoned recently, since it has yet to be burned down by orcs."  
"...After _you_," Shastan replied.  
"It was your idea to come here."  
"Are you saying you're scared?"  
"Are you?"  
"I was thinking we'd both go in."  
"You first, then."  
"_At the same time._"  
"Ah. Ready?"  
"On the count of three."  
"Right."  
"One...two...three."  
No one moved.

"For Basra's sake," Shastan muttered and charged into the house with ceremonial spear ready. Ladril unsheathed his sword and quickly followed.  
As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, the shape of a sitting room could be discerned. The shelves and mantle were bare, aside from a thin layer of dust. Ahead was a narrow staircase and to the left a cramped hall.   
"No ghosts," Shastan stated with a trace of disappointment.  
"We don't want ghosts, we want supplies. Try upstairs while I search the hall." 

Shastan consented and trudged up the staircase. The ranger warily took the hallway, sword pointed ahead. In the dark he suddenly stumbled upon an open space; the afternoon light spilling from the windows showed it was a kitchen. Again the shelves were bare, so Ladril rooted through the cupboards and drawers. As he went through the first row of drawers he noticed a small farmhouse a few yards from the window. With any luck, a few of the farm animals could still be around.

Ladril went back to searching the last row of drawers. The final drawer contained a great bundle of knives, gleaming in the half light. Satisfied that his search finally produced something, Ladril dumped all the knives into his pack.

He was taking one last look around the kitchen when he suddenly heard a piercing cry.

Sword brandished, Ladril barreled down the hall and flew up the narrow staircase. His heart pounding, he rounded the corner and found Shastan sprawled in a hallway, his spear pointed fearfully at side room.  
"What happened?" Ladril cried and raced forward.

"_In there,_" The Swerting hissed.  
The ranger stopped and eyed the ink-black room in front of them. Shastan got to his feet and kept his spear pointed at the doorway, but he clearly would not go back in. The two men stared at the room for a long moment.

"...I'll go in," Ladril whispered. "Come after me if I call you."  
Shastan gave him a firm nod.  
Ladril hesitantly neared the door frame and, after calming his nerves and tightening the grip on his sword, he took a cautious step into the darkness. 

There was utter silence, except for the sound of the ranger's feet shifting across the floorboards. He could not see a foot in front of him, but he sensed someone was there.  
"Yield to me now," He ventured in the darkness. "Yield yourself and I promise I will not hurt you."  
There was no reply.  
"Talking will not do any good," Shastan whispered from the door. "It's some kind of creature."  
Ladril cautiously moved forward. With him advancing and Shastan at the door there was no way anything could escape the room. But with each step in the dark Ladril found his confidence dwindling.  
He was nearing the back of the room when he heard scuttling right before him. A shaft of light from a half-drawn shutter helped the ranger adjust his vision in the darkness. He took one final step...then suddenly found himself staring into the black, charcoal eyes of...

A chicken.

Ladril blinked, stared at it, and blinked again. The chicken held Ladril in the same puzzled regard.  
"...Did you find it?" Shastan broke the silence.  
"Shastan?" The ranger started. "...It's a chicken."  
Shastan hesitated. "...What's a chicken?"  
"You spent all those years in Belfalas and you don't know what a _chicken_ is?" Ladril asked incredulously.  
"I spent all those years _isolated in a mill_ in Belfalas and no, I do not know what a chicken is."

There was a pause, then the Swerting heard an outbreak of laughter in the darkness. "You sent me in here to hunt down a _chicken_!"  
"It caught me off guard, all right?"  
"You got scared of a _chicken_!"  
"It was dark in there, and it suddenly jumped out-"  
But Shastan's protestations were not helping. The fact that the Swerting could not stand up to a chicken sent the ranger into a fit of laughter that rang throughout the entire cabin.

Shastan did _not_ find it funny. 

Ladril finally came out of the room with the chicken under a firm grip. Shastan slightly jumped as the bird wildly beat its white wings and clawed at the air with its stubby feet.  
"_This,_" Ladril stated with a smirk, "Is a chicken. It scratches, pecks, makes the most incessant noises in the morning and tastes good when lightly roasted over a fire. With that said, understand that if the next foe we meet is another farm animal, you're on your own."  
Instead of quipping something back, Shastan studied the chicken with peaking interest. "...You can actually _eat_ this thing?"  
Ladril sighed and put the bird into Shastan's arms. "Come on, we're leaving."  
The Swerting followed Ladril down the stairs, gingerly holding the strange creature. "We haven't finished searching the house," He said.  
"It doesn't matter, we're quite done here. And from now on, no more wild detours off the road, because you are either throwing rocks at orcs, pestering crazy blind men, or making me hunt down chickens. Valar knows what will happen next."

Shastan couldn't argue there, so he simply followed in silence as they left the cabin. When they made it to the pebbled road, Ladril studied the setting sun with dissatisfaction. "The day is spent. We wasted valuable traveling time poking around that cabin and what did we get in return?"  
Shastan looked down at the mess of feathers in his arms. "...We have a chicken," He offered.  
Ladril paused a moment, then smiled at this. "Yes, we have a chicken. And a fine feast we'll make of it too!"

He walked over to a large stone and unsheathed his sword. He then motioned the Swerting to hand over the bird. Shastan was a bit disappointed; he had become rather fascinated with the new creature he discovered. But food was food he supposed, and it would be impossible to travel with a live chicken.  
He accordingly delivered the chicken to Ladril and the bird simply blinked in ignorance as its neck was laid across the stone. The ranger held it firmly in place and with the other hand he raised his sword. He brought the blade halfway down and suddenly stopped.

He realized Shastan was watching innocently.  
"...Shastan? You might want to look away."  
"What? You think I'll find it disturbing?" He asked incredulously.  
"More or less."  
"I do not know of anything that could possibly disturb me."  
"You also do not know what a chicken does after its head is cut off."  
Shastan waved a hand dismissively, quite set on watching the beheading. At length Ladril shrugged and raised his sword again. Then he brought it down with a swift stroke.

It was late in the night. A soft wind blew through the trees, a fire glowed in the small camp, the remains of a chicken still clung to the spit, Ladril happily sat back with his stomach filled, and Shastan was still very disturbed.  
"Are you going to be all right?" Ladril finally asked the Swerting.  
"It kept...running in circles...and the head was gone..." Shastan gave a disgusted shudder.  
Ladril could only give a sympathetic smile. "That's the trouble with chickens, I'm afraid. They don't have enough sense to know when they're dead."  
"I have never seen an animal do that before."  
"It's in the breed, I suppose."  
There was thoughtful silence as the ranger idly poked at the fire with a stick. Then Shastan looked up.  
"I think...I would want to die like a chicken." 

Ladril stared at him blankly. "Dare I ask why?"  
"You know, up on my feet: fighting till the last moment, refusing to take death for an answer. That's how I'd like to go."  
Ladril gave a smirk. "Curious you'd want to die like a chicken, considering you were just defeated by one today."  
"You are most amusing," Shastan said dryly. "I suppose you will never let me forget that incident."  
Ladril's smirk grew wider. "...Never."

Shastan took the last piece of chicken and chewed it with great hesitation.  
"What about you, Laaderil? What kind of death would you want?"  
"Not a chicken's death, I assure you."  
"Your problem is that you do not appreciate metaphors. But come, if you could choose, how would you want to go?"  
_Avenged_, Ladril wanted to say. Instead he simply shrugged. "I've never given it much thought."

There was another pause, then Shastan spoke exactly what was on Ladril's mind.  
"You never finished telling me about your brother's medallion. Is it of high quality that you should value it so much?"  
It stung to recall the details of Belegorn's prized possession, but Ladril did so to satisfy Shastan.  
"It was encrusted with seven jeweled stars," He said. "A white tree was at its center."  
Shastan shrugged at length. "Sounds like a common piece of jewelry to me. Is not the emblem of Gondor a white tree?"  
"My father forged it himself in his smithery," Ladril said, slightly affronted. "Such craft had never been seen before in Minas Tirith. And the day he gave it to Belegorn...I never saw my brother so happy."  
The Swerting straightened with an air of wisdom. "When a man dearly loves a possession, a part of him lives in it after he passes to the next world."  
"But I do not have Belegorn's medallion. How does that help me?"  
"It is an answer to your question this morning. Possessions carry a bit of a man's memory and spirit. That's why Swertings take them from men they defeated in battle. Understand?"

"...I understand," Ladril replied, but that was not true. He didn't understand how one man could take another man's treasure without remorse; he didn't understand why the world would give men possessions and loved ones only to take them away; he didn't understand why his brother had to die...

The fire was slowly dying and the night was growing old. Ladril knew it was now time to face a listless sleep: one of many in a long count of nights. Ladril found no comfort in Shastan's words. Not that it mattered of course; Ladril needed no comfort or sympathy. But ever since they agreed to travel to the Crossings of Poros together, he hoped he would find resolution in Shastan's company.

...All he found was that the longer he was with a Southron, the worse his nightmares got.


	10. Chapter 10: The Coin Game

**author's note: **So much for posting once a week. But thankfully school is done, so my life will return somewhat to normalcy. Thanks everyone for your comments and support! And FYI: 'Swerting' is another name for Southron, which is used in this story because Shastan finds the name Southron too barbaric.

Chapter 10: The Coin Game

"Chance...or fate...it could hardly be one without the other." _-Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead_

"Laaderil! Laaderil wake up!"  
Ladril jolted up with a gasp. His heart was pounding and sweat beaded along his brow.  
"What...what happened?" Was all he could say.  
"You had another nightmare," Shastan explained. "You were shouting in your sleep."  
Ladril laid back and wearily rubbed his eyes. Waking from a nightmare to the skeletal shapes of a forest was not very plesant.  
"...Something about Belegorn," Shastan added, remaining fixed at Ladril's bedding to hear an explanation.  
Instead of responding, Ladril simply rolled over and wrapped his cloak about himself. "Sorry, Shastan. I need some sleep."  
Shastan finally shrugged and went back to his bed, glancing occasionally at the ranger's motionless form. Ladril knew Shastan wanted details about Belegorn's death; he had been hinting about ever since last night when they ate the chicken. He probably deserved an explanation, but the subject was too painful for Ladril to discuss. And he did not want to admit that he was still having trouble coping with his loss. So he kept quiet concerning the matter, praying that while hiding it on the outside he would not start to feel it eat from the inside.

Shastan allowed Ladril to sleep in and they began their journey in the late morning at a stroll. The day was pleasant and the road evenly wound its way under sunny leaves and cherry blossoms. The two men began talking about their lands and various tales. Ladril's mood brightened as Shastan described magic caves full of gold, women who lulled warlords to sleep just by singing, and fish so monstrous their humps were oft mistaken for isles. Ladril in turn told tales concerning fair Númenor in its splendor, and the fact that the entire kingdom was swallowed by the sea interested Shastan greatly. He suggested Numenor was perhaps built unwittingly upon a fish that fell asleep, and the end of the kingdom was due to the fish waking from its nap and diving under for a meal. Hearing this caused Ladril to break the stillness of the morning with hearty laughter.  
Late in the afternoon the men came across a young buck in the woods. Ladril was surprised that the buck did not scare Shastan half as much as the chicken had. After much effort between the two of them the buck was finally caught, making another fine meal for the ranger and the Swerting that night. They ate to their hearts' content as darkness gathered and the evening air grew chilled. For a while the two men sat back as the fire crackled against the cold night, and in the silence Ladril's thoughts seeped back into the troubled haunts of his mind.

But all silence and thoughts were broken when Shastan leaned forward thoughtfully and said "...I think...yes...it's cold enough...Perfect weather to play."  
"Play what?" The ranger asked mildly.  
"The coin game."  
"What's the coin game?"  
Shastan held up his coin, its gold flickering bright red against the firelight, and spoke in an ominous tone. "Do you believe in fate?"  
"No," Ladril replied flatly.  
"Excellent! It will be fun to play against you then."  
"How do you play?"  
"It's a game played in my Homeland. It requires at least two men, a coin, a warm fire, and a very cold night. One man asks the other man a 'yes' or 'no' question: if he answers truthfully he can keep his seat next to the fire; if his answer is a lie he must move a space away from the fire's warmth. Twenty questions are asked back and forth and he who is closest to his original space by the fire wins."  
"But how can you tell if a man is speaking the truth or not?"  
Shastan raised his coin again. "The One, or Fate as you would call it, will tell. Each time a man is asked a question he flips the coin. If it lands with the printed head facing up he is telling the truth, and if it lands blank side up he is lying. The One's judgment on the man's honesty is spoken through the coin. You want to play?"  
The ranger looked at Shastan. "Can I speak frankly?"  
"Of course."  
"The game sounds ridiculous."  
Shastan raised a brow. "Afraid you'll lose?"  
Ladril's pride immediately kicked in. "Of course not. Not only will I play this silly game but I'll beat you at it too. How many questions do we ask?"  
"Ten each."  
"Of any nature?"  
"Providing they can be answered with yes or no. But if you lie then you must answer the question _in detail_."  
"Fine with me."  
Shastan tossed the coin to Ladril. "I will ask you a question first."  
Ladril caught the coin and held it between his thumb and forefinger. "It still sounds ridiculous," He muttered.  
Shastan cleared his throat and began the game.

"Is there a lady you are fond of?"  
"No," Ladril replied. He tossed the coin and with a bounce it landed in the dirt. Shastan leaned over.  
"Blank side," He speculated.  
"See, Shastan? This is just a game of chance. There is no ominous 'truth' or 'lie' factor at work."  
"What's her name?"  
"The odds of a coin landing on one side or the other are even. It's pure logic. The coin had just as good a chance landing heads up."  
"What's her name?"  
"...Iorwen," Ladril finally muttered.  
"And what is she like?"  
Ladril tried to think of what words would best describe her, but in the end he could only say "She's...everything I've ever wanted."  
"That does not satisfy my question," Shastan insisted.  
"Fine. She's beautiful, intelligent, and we first met in front of the Houses of Healing where she spends her days as a nurse. Is that enough?"  
"So I take it you two have been courting for a while."  
At this Ladril squirmed. "Well, we are not exactly...I mean, she doesn't really..."  
The Swerting gaped. "She is not aware of your intentions?"  
"Look, enough questions. It's my turn."  
Shastan looked at Ladril firmly. "We'll discuss this later then. Move a space back and ask me a question."

The ranger moved a few feet away from the fire and tossed the coin to Shastan. After a moment of thought, Ladril looked at Shastan's garb disdainfully. "Have you ever worn a color besides black?"  
"No." Shastan flipped the coin. It bounced then landed blank side up.  
"It says you're lying," Ladril observed.  
Shastan did not reply.  
"...So are you?"  
"_Yes,_" The Swerting quipped in embarassment.  
Ladril looked up in interest; the topic of colors was obviously a sensitive subject for Shastan.  
"Out with it. Tell me when you have worn a different color."  
"...When I was very young, still living in Kisha'rut, there was a festival in which the children had to put on a play. They made me put on a blue costume and participate."  
"What is so horrible about that?"  
"It was a play about a hero and his maiden...and...well...we were out of maidens."  
Ladril's eyes widened. "You played a _girl_?"  
"It's my turn!" Shastan cried and scooted a space away from the fire. Before Ladril could say another word the Swerting tossed the coin to him and dove into the next question. "Are you new to the army?"

Ladril paused and studied the coin. It definitely had a heads side and a blank side, so Shastan was not tricking him. Still, there was no way a _coin_ could judge a man's honesty. Ladril answered Shastan's question with a "No," and tried flipping the coin to make it land on heads. It bounced on the ground and landed blank side up.  
"I've been in the regiment for three months." Ladril said curtly. Shastan shrugged and took the coin, waiting for Ladril's question.

"Is there a lady _you_ fancy?" He asked.  
"No," Shastan replied. The coin landed heads up. "...The slave-mills of Belfalas and the ports of Umbar were not exactly opportunities to meet women." He picked up the coin and asked his question.  
"Have most of your nights been troubled with nightmares?"  
"...No." Ladril again tried flipping the coin so it would land on heads, but it soundly struck the ground displaying the blank side. Ladril moved a space back and jumped into another question.  
"Does every trinket you're wearing represent a man you have slain?"  
"Yes," Shastan said. The coin was heads. "Are you fairly close to your family?"  
"...Yes." The coin was heads. "Have you ever felt remorse after killing a man?"  
"No." It was heads. "Do you miss your brother?"  
"No." It was blank. "Do _any_ of your people feel remorse when they kill others?"  
"Not if it is the enemy." It was heads. "Did you lose Belegorn recently?"  
"...No."  
It was blank.

By this time the frigid air had all but shut out the fire's warmth for Ladril. And with every question asked, dark memories began to sharpen his anger.  
"Do your people thrive on slaying others?" He asked coldly.  
"No."  
It was heads.  
"Are all your nightmares about Belegorn?"  
"_No_."  
It was blank.  
"Would you kill an innocent man in his sleep?"  
"No."  
It was heads.  
"Do you feel you need to be avenged for your brother's death?"  
"No!"  
It was blank.  
"Do your people hack down crops and villages as well as people?"  
"No."  
It was heads.  
"Is there a specific reason you hate my people so much?"  
"No."  
It was blank.  
"Do your people kill women and children as savagely as they kill men?"  
"No."  
It was heads.  
"Did my people take something from you?"  
"_No!_"  
It was blank.  
"Is it true you drink the blood of your enemies?"  
"No."  
It was heads.  
"Did my people kill your brother?"

"...No."

Ladril tried dropping the coin to make it land on heads. As he did so it slipped from his fingers, hit a rock, and after a moment of tumbling it landed blank side up.

The ranger got up and walked away in an effort to hide his tears. Shastan remained quiet while Ladril reached the edge of the camp and stood there in silence.  
"Laaderil," Shastan said at last. "It is time you told me what happened."  
There was silence a moment more, then after some effort Ladril spoke. "Two weeks ago...Belegorn was camped with a small party near the road in South Ithilien. They meant to watch the road and send out warning if enemies passed. But a pack of Southrons came from the woods and ambushed the camp in the middle of the night." Ladril lifted his head resignedly. "...My brother was killed in his sleep."

Shastan nodded quietly. "That's why you hate my people so much. And that's why you were always angry with me. Because a Swerting killed your brother."  
"I already know what you will say." The ranger shook his head. "I had no right and I let petty hate and prejudice take over."  
"_No,_" Shastan said firmly. "You had every right. You did not know how to heal your pain, satisfy your loss, so it has become a hate inside you. I know how that feels."  
Ladril shook his head. "It's just...I miss my brother terribly..."  
"I understand."  
Ladril looked up in confusion. A Southron killed his brother, and now a Southron was consoling him in his loss. Yet he realized most of his hate and assumptions towards Shastan's people had been dispelled during their travels and that, to Ladril's great surprise, opened the way to heal. Also talking about Belegorn's death at last, letting it all out, felt relieving to him. Ladril turned to the Swerting with some peace upon his face. "I think at last...I am beginning to feel some closure."  
"Your resolution has been wrought by yourself, not by me." Shastan stated.  
"Perhaps."

Then the two youths realized the night was waxing old, and the fire was beginning to die. With a long journey awaiting them on the morrow, the men quickly unrolled their bedding and prepared for some sleep.  
"You won the game Shastan," The ranger admitted. "Which means I will have to find something to beat you at tomorrow."  
"Until then," Was the reply, and no more was said that night.  
...But Ladril noticed with some curiosity that Shastan was sleeping furthest from the fire.


	11. Chapter 11: Elen

**Chapter 11: Elen**

**Author's note: **Once again, I apologize for the delay. I noticed that chatnoir1 liked the 'cultural understanding' in this story (thanks chatnoir1). But now we turn away from the understanding of cultures and take the beaten path towards the understanding of genders. :)

"So each one upwards in the air his shot he did expend, and may all other duels have that upshot in the end!" -_Thomas Hood_

"Shastan? Shastan it's time to get up."  
The Swerting groaned. His eyes blinked open, then quickly shut again at the sharp glare of the morning.  
"This is the first time _I_ had to wake _you_ up," Ladril speculated.  
Shastan sat up and stretched a little. "I did not sleep last night."  
"Well I've got breakfast prepared, but it is not much. We're low on supplies."  
Shastan became more awake. "Even after the chicken and the buck we had?"  
"I'm afraid so," Ladril said. "Now get up so we can eat before our journey."

Shastan and Ladril finished breakfast sooner than expected, and they found themselves packed with time to spare before their departure. The morning was warm and bright, and Ladril noted a wide clearing not far from where they camped. This gave him an idea.  
The ranger stood up with sword in hand. "Come on. Let's have a bout."  
Shastan looked up. "A bout?"  
"Yes. I'd like to see how I would fair against your spear."  
"...You want me to _fight_ you?"  
Ladril frowned. "Well yes, but not in the way you put it. It will just be for sport."  
Shastan looked at him solemnly. "I will not fight you, Laaderil."  
"It's just for fun! What's the matter with you? You can even take off the tip of your spear and I'll keep my sword sheathed so no one will get hurt. Fair enough?"  
Shastan remained silent.  
Ladril shrugged. "All right then. If you are afraid to lose I understand."  
The Swerting sprang to his feet and marched to the clearing with spear in hand. Ladril smirked and quickly followed.

There was a stillness in the woods and fresh morning air as the two opponents faced each other in the center of the field. Ladril tied the straps of his sheath tightly around the sword's hilt to keep the sheath from slipping, while Shastan unscrewed the tip off his spear.  
"What shall the rules be?" Ladril asked his opponent.

"If I hit you with the end off my staff, where the spearhead should be, then you lose." Shastan stated.  
"Likewise, if I hit you with any part of my sword," The ranger replied. With that said, the two men took their ready positions.

Ladril couldn't help but smirk at Shastan's feeble weapon. His staff was no match for the ranger's long sword. If Ladril delivered a swift stroke, he would easily win this bout. The muscles of the two opponents tensed and their weapons raised.  
"On the count of three," Shastan ordered. "One...two..."  
"Three!"

Ladril dove forward and swung his sword evenly for Shastan's neck, but Shastan tilted his staff and blocked his stroke. Then without warning Shastan spun about and swung his staff for Ladril's head. Ladril only had just enough time to angle his sword and meet Shastan's staff with a clang. He tried to quickly spring away but was soon confronted with nearly the full length of Shastan's ceremonial spear. Only a few jerks from the Swerting's hands sent his staff whipping back and forth at his opponent. With some quick strokes Ladril managed to block Shastan's repeated attacks until the two broke off for a moment in their combat.

Ladril nervously bit his lip. He had _never_ seen a spear manipulated like that before. He had thought all one could do with a spear was lob it and pray it would hit something. Shastan was turning out to be a formidable opponent.  
"Had enough, Laaderil?" The Swerting asked smugly.  
But Ladril smiled. During combat he had found Shastan's weak spot. "My dear fellow," He replied. "I am just getting warmed up."

In response Shastan jabbed at the ranger again. Once more Ladril fended off the pokes as swiftly as he could. Shastan's motions started becoming more circular and fluid as he continued his strokes. In an attempt to catch Ladril off balance, Shastan whipped his staff in a full circle over his head with lightning motion. But Ladril was waiting for such an opportunity, and dove towards Shastan the second his spear was out of the way. The Swerting found himself fighting with Ladril up close, making his ceremonial spear ineffective. All he could do was block as Ladril came closer to making a deathstroke. After a few moments, however, Ladril's over-confidence made him sloppy, and Shastan was able to dart back in a narrow escape. Once again he put the length of his staff between them. Now Shastan attacked with such a vengence that Ladril began to panic. Before he could react, Shastan knocked the sword out of his hand in one smooth movement, leaving Ladril defenseless.  
"Yield," Shastan commanded.  
"Never," Ladril said defiantly.  
Shastan smiled. "Then it is time to be creative, Laaderil."

With that Shastan struck and Ladril just barely dodged the blow. He then swung for his head, but Ladril ducked in time. Light on his feet, Ladril bobbed and weaved through Shastan's blows until the Swerting grew impatient. He then made such a definitive jab that Ladril was able to spin about and make an attempt to grab the spear from him. The two wrestled over the weapon, but only until Ladril could feel Shastan tugging at the spear with all his might. The ranger suddenly pushed forward, causing Shastan to lose balance, then jerked back and dropped flat on the ground, pushing Shastan off with his foot. The Swerting sailed overhead and landed on his back with a resounding thud.  
After some wheezing, followed by a few curses, he staggered back to his feet. Noting he had landed next to Ladril's fallen sword, Shastan quickly grabbed it. But he nearly toppled over again at the weapon's weight, and Ladril laughed amusedly as Shastan strained to lift the heavy sword.

The ranger stopped laughing when he noticed his own clumsy grip on the awkwardly long spear.

The two opponents hesitated as they evaluated their peculiar situation. After a moment both men chose to attack, regardless of what weapon they had. Shastan heavily swung at Ladril while he wobbled the staff in the Shastan's face. Accompanied with strains and grunts, the sword continued to make clumsy strokes and the ceremonial spear zigzagged all over the place. After a few more vain attempts to maneuver the weapons, Shastan and Ladril finally gave up and tossed the weapons back to the original owners.

Quite ready to end the duel, the two men hollered war cries and charged at each other with such force as not been seen in the entire bout. After quick and thunderous strokes Shastan finally knocked Ladril's feet from under him and the ranger fell flat on his back.

When his eyes regained focus he found the end of Shastan's staff pointed at his throat.

"...I win!" Shastan grinned.  
In response Ladril could only groan and wheeze for air.  
"I know how _that_ feels," Shastan stated, and remained standing over the ranger. "Yield yourself now, along with two mumaks and your steward's boots."  
Ladril coughed again and grinned. "...Never. I know a thousand chickens that will gladly avenge my defeat."  
Shastan laughed heartily. "Well that was fun! Come now, let's get you up."

No sooner had Shastan said the word "up" when a streak of white suddenly tackled him off his feet from behind.

Ladril blinked a few times in utter surprise, then sprang up and grabbed his sword. He found Shastan on his back, with the point of a gleaming sword under his chin. The owner of the weapon stood directly above him.  
"Move but an inch, Southron, and my blade shall be in your throat."  
Ladril reeled back in shock: the voice belonged to a woman!

The maiden, clad in glowing white, stood sternly over her fallen foe with a firm grip on her blade. She turned to face Ladril with blue, confident eyes shining through strands of dark billowing hair that draped down to her slim waist.  
"Have no fear, sir," The lady said with assurance. "This Southron cannot harm you now."  
"...Who are you?" Was all Ladril could say.  
"I am Dolantalaina, the half-elven maid of Sirion and only daughter of Aglon. Many years have I wandered the roads of Men, vowing never to rest until all evil in Middle Earth has been vanquished and peace is at last bestowed upon Man and Elf alike!"  
There was a moment of silence while everything sank in, then Ladril suddenly doubled over and began laughing hysterically.

There was an awkward pause on the maiden's part. "...Is there something amusing, my lord?"  
"...It is _you_ that are most amusing, lady," Ladril said after he finally managed to compose himself. "You really must brush up on your Elvish, unless your name truly is 'Dolantalaina', though I can't imagine why a mother would name her child 'Long Head Holy Foot'. And if Aglon is truly your father, then you are the daughter of a very narrow pass cutting through ancient Beleriand. And judging by the way you're holding that sword, I doubt you have ever handled a weapon in your life."  
The lady fidgeted a little but did not lose face. "...You are very clever, sir. I commend you for finding me out. I am actually the niece of the Steward and I have fled the White City because of an arranged marriage to a man I do not love-"  
"Lord Denethor has no relations save his sons," Ladril said flatly. "Let's try again, this time with your _real_ name."

The lady fidgeted once more, searching anxiously for any other option. But at length her posture slackened and she surrendered by sourly muttering "...Elen."  
"Then good morrow to you, Lady Elen." Ladril's eyes shifted to Elen's garb and recognized its pale colors.  
"You are not by chance a nurse from the Houses of Healing?"  
"...I am," Elen muttered with even more disdain.  
"Then what are you doing in the middle of the wilderness?"  
Meanwhile Shastan, who could not move an inch this whole time, finally lost patience.  
"Will you _please_ get off of me?"  
Elen, who realized she was still holding Shastan at sword point, switched back to her charade of gallantry. "Silence, heathen! I have not finished with you!"  
"Now hold on," Ladril cut in. "There has been a mistake-"  
"He would have killed you if I hadn't intervened. The only mistake would be to let him live!"  
"You will not touch him! Shastan is my friend!"

Both Elen and Shastan looked up at him blankly.  
"...I mean "friend", as in we are both on a mutual level of indifference," Ladril quickly explained. "...We are that, aren't we?"  
"Well yes, I suppose we are," Shastan reasoned.  
Elen looked at Ladril, then at Shastan in disbelief. "But...I don't understand. You're a Gondorrim, and he's a Southron-"  
"_Swerting_." Shastan said.  
"What?"  
"Shastan prefers to be called Swerting," Ladril explained. "'Southron' sounds too barbaric to him."  
"...But...he...he had a spear pointed at your throat!" She cried helplessly.  
"The spearhead had been taken off. We were in the middle of a friendly bout," Ladril replied. "Now can you _please_ get off him?"  
Elen looked down and found herself locked in the icy glare of Shastan. "I'm going to count to zero..."  
"All right! All right!" The Lady lightly sprang off the annoyed Swerting and sheathed her sword.

As Ladril helped Shastan up, Elen could not help but look at them in wonder. "I still do not understand how a Gondorrim and a Southron...or Swerting...can be friends."  
"And we do not understand why a nurse would be so far away from her city," Ladril answered. "So with all due respect lady, since your entrance was rather intrusive you should give your story first."  
"Very well," Elen agreed, though a bit disappointed she couldn't concoct a more theatrical version for the tale. "The Healer sent me to accompany the wains departing Minas Tirith."  
"Wains?" Ladril was startled that women and children were already evacuating from the city. "The times are dark indeed."  
"I am afraid so," Elen said. "I was in the first company to leave Minas Tirith, but two days ago, as we journeyed past the Crossings of Erui, we were ambushed by orcs from the hills. They have taken over the wains now, and thus far I think I am the only one that has managed to slip away." Elen said this with a touch of pride.  
"Now even _wains_ are being attacked?" Ladril was mortified. "Right when I thought the enemy could stoop no lower!...No offense, Shastan."  
Shastan simply shrugged.  
"...But the Crossings of Erui are on the Western side of the Anduin," The ranger speculated. "How did you get on _this_ side of the river?"  
"I swam across," Elen stated.  
"You _swam_?"  
"Oh yes," The lady waved a hand as if it were no more than an easy chore. "I managed to steal a sword and slip away in the night. A few brutes tried to chase me, so I crossed the Anduin and that's that."  
"...That's that." Ladril repeated, unconvinced. "You just crossed the Anduin and that's that."  
"...Yes," The maiden's voice slightly wavered. Ladril raised a brow and glared as she tried to keep a confident posture. After a drawn out and shaky silence Elen suddenly broke down.

"It was _horrible!_" She cried. "All these orcs were shooting at me and the water was freezing and I kept sinking because of my stupid sword and I nearly _drowned_ five times! And now I can't find the city to get help and the wains are doomed and I don't think I can even _look_ at another river again!"  
She began to sob uncontrollably into Ladril's shoulder. The young man went as stiff as a board and looked to Shastan for help. The Swerting raised his hands and stepped back, wanting no part in the fragile situation. Ladril was left to awkwardly pat Elen in an attempt to stop her weeping.  
"Now, now...things aren't that bad...don't cry, we'll help somehow..." Suddenly an idea struck him. "_We_ could help the wains!"  
"'We'?" Shastan asked.  
"You are only two men," Elen said between her tears.  
"But that could change. Do you know if the enemy and the wains are on the move?"  
"...I think so. As far as I could tell they were still moving South. The brutes most likely want to distance themselves from the shadow of the city and go deeper into the valleys. There they will make spoils of our food and treasure and do to my people whatever they find more entertaining than death."  
"Not if we can help it!" Ladril declared.  
"...'We' again?" Shastan asked.  
"-If a good diversion is created, the enemy will lose its strength in numbers."  
"Even so, you two could not take on such a force!" Elen insisted.  
"What if every man in your wains was armed?"  
The lady hesitated. "...Then I suppose it would work. But the enemy confiscated our weapons the moment they overthrew the wains."  
"But I've got an advantage." Ladril left the clearing, leaving Elen and Shastan to follow him. He went back to the campsite and opened his pack, displaying a large bundle of various-sized knives.

Elen practically beamed with hope at the promising stash of weaponry. Shastan however was very grave.  
"Where did you get those?"  
"I found them back in the cabin," Ladril said dismissively. "What do you think? We could smuggle ourselves into the wains, quietly distribute the knives, create a diversion so the larger force of orcs is drawn away, and then we can overthrow the enemy from behind!"  
"Marvelous!" Elen cried, thoroughly delighted.  
But Shastan was not so moved. Instead he went over to Ladril and with a firm grip on his sleeve he leaned in close. "First of all, you do not get to use 'we' unless you actually have my consent. Second of all-" He glanced at Elen. "Back to the clearing, Elen. We need a moment alone."  
"Of course..." Elen hesitantly turned from the campsite and walked back the way they came.  
When they were alone, Ladril turned to Shastan in disbelief. "Why did you send her away like that? That was highly inappropriate."  
Shastan dove straight to the point. "Why were you keeping those knives from me?"  
Ladril's eyes could not meet the Swerting's piercing gaze. "Do you want the truth?"  
"Yes."  
"--Because I figured they would give me an upper hand in case you turned on me."

Shastan blinked. "...You didn't trust me?"  
"Shastan I'm sorry-"  
"Because I certainly trusted you. And what advantage would I have had if you decided to turn on _me?_"  
"None at all. I should have told you about them, Shastan. I'm sorry..."  
Shastan paced a bit, then let out a long breath. "All right."  
Ladril looked up. "'All right'? That's it?"  
"Yes," Shastan turned away thoughtfully. "We all keep secrets, don't we?"  
Ladril frowned at the possibility of Shastan still keeping secrets from him. "...I thought you and I were past that point."  
"Not when you started hiding knives."  
"All right, but what about the situation at hand? What should we do about Elen and her wains?"  
The Swerting waved a hand. "You can do what you wish."  
"And you? What will you do?"  
Shastan looked up with firm resignation. "Nothing."  
"_Nothing?_" Ladril started. "But the Enemy is holding the wains hostage!"  
"You speak of the Enemy as if it were naught but a machine made of bolts and wheels. We may be friends, but I am still on the other side. It would be treason to help this girl and fight against my allies."  
"But they're orcs. You don't like orcs."  
"Nonetheless, I cannot get involved."

The Swerting was about to turn away when Ladril grabbed his arm. "Shastan, I know you have bent many rules on my behalf, but I ask for this one favor. If there's to be a battle, we're going need your help. If you sit on the sidelines many women and children are going to be killed!"  
Shastan's eyes widened. "_What_ women and children?"  
"The ones Elen has been talking about."  
The Swerting stared blankly.  
Ladril threw his hands in the air. "Wagons of women and children sent away from a city before it is sieged! What did you _think_ a wain was?"  
"How would I know? I'm not exactly caught up in your people's queer terminologies."  
"They're going to _kill_ women and children, Shastan. Your people do not stand for that. You even said so."  
There followed a thoughtful pause on Shastan's part. Then he sighed wearily.  
"If my commanding officers ever caught wind of me aiding the other side..."  
"I will not breathe a word to anyone," Ladril vowed.  
At length Shastan nodded. "All right then...I'll help."  
"Thank you. You will not regret this." Ladril turned to the direction of the clearing. "We'll need to tell Lady Elen of our decision."

The two men left the campsite once more, but had gone no more than five steps when they spotted Elen crouched behind a tree. To hide the fact she had been eavesdropping, she quickly sat on the forest floor and stared idly in the other direction, tweedling her hair.  
"We're not taking her with us, are we?" Shastan frowned.  
"Of course. We can't just leave her out here."  
Shastan lifted a brow and shrugged as if to say 'Why not?'  
Ladril looked at him incredulously. "Have you got something against women?"  
"Not all women, just those that try to run about brandishing swords," Shastan's frown turned into a nauseated grimace. "Do we _really_ have to take her?"  
Ladril shook his head disappointedly. "I'm surprised at you! Sword or no sword, she is still a lady. It's a wonder you spent all those years in Gondor without picking up a little chivalry."  
"My folk are chivalrous enough to the women who remain at home rather than tromp the wild," Shastan's glance shifted to Elen. She was innocently standing up as if she had just seen them coming. "-Mark my words, if we take her with us she'll be nothing but trouble."

"I am _not_ leaving a lady in the woods," Ladril insisted. "Better we have trouble than tarnished honor."

And that was his last word on the matter. Ladril stepped forward to greet Elen. "...We have decided to help reclaim your wains, lady."  
"Thank you," Elen said gratefully. "It is so kind of you two to do this, though I have yet to know your names."  
"Oh!" Ladril nearly hit himself for neglecting his manners. "This is Shastan of Western Kisha'rut," He gestured to the Swerting, who gave a grudging nod. "-And I am Ladril, son of Morlin."  
At this Elen's eyes widened. "_You_ are Ladril?"  
"Yes..." Ladril started. "What? Have you heard of me?"  
"Er..." Elen quickly waved a hand, dismissing the subject. "Nevermind. What will be our course of action for the wains?"

As Ladril dove into a detailed plan with the lady Elen, Shastan was left to dig his heels in. He could not help but wonder how this new unbalanced chemistry would dramatically affect their quest at hand.


	12. Chapter 12: The Trouble With Women

**Chapter 12: The Trouble With Women**

**author's note: **Now that Shastan and Ladril have gotten over their differences, they must confront a strange and utterly foreign species: women. With a female addition to their company, the two men now alter course to rescue a band of women and children that has been kidnapped by orcs. Thanks everybody for your support!

_"A man's got to do what a man's got to do. A woman  
must do what he can't."_ - Rhonda Hansome

The plan was this:

Ladril, Shastan, and Elen would travel along the river's edge until they reached the South Bend, where Ladril knew the Anduin's water dropped every year before spring. If their luck held, the river would be shallow enough to wade across and, if their luck still held, they would run into the wains as they made their laborious journey South under the whip of the orcs.  
Once they reached the wains...well, that thought was saved for later. It was still a day's journey to the South Bend, and the task of simply crossing the river looked uncertain. Once that feat was accomplished, they could then worry about devising a plan to overthrow the orcs and rescue Elen's people.

The men and lady spent the rest of the day traveling. As evening drew near the group came upon a small grove and chose to set up camp. Ladril went in search of kindling, leaving Shastan and Elen alone to unpack the supplies. The ranger came across a dead tree and began to cut its branches, quietly plotting various battle tactics that would be advantageous for the wains.

...He hadn't been at the job ten minutes when Shastan came stomping towards him.

"Shastan?" Ladril stopped his work. "What's the matter?"  
"_Women!_" Shastan cried, clenching his teeth in frustration.  
"Can't I leave the two of you alone for one moment?" Ladril sighed.  
"She was telling _me_ how to make camp!"  
"What's so bad about that?"  
"Nothing...until she starts making up stories about how she used to camp with _elves_!" Shastan gave a disgusted huff and sat firmly on a log.  
"Well you cannot stay with me," Ladril insisted. "It's not right to leave the lady by herself. You are quite capable of putting up with Elen a few minutes longer."  
"What makes you so sure?"  
"Because you've been able to put up with _me_."  
Shastan was about to heartily agree, but then he frowned in thought. "...Laaderil, can you help me with a word?"  
Ladril looked up from his wood-chopping. "A word?"  
"I'm afraid my Gondor-speech is not what it used to be. What does the word "intriguing" mean?"  
Ladril paused to think. "It means mysterious, in a likeable way. Or rather interesting and fascinating."  
Suddenly the Swerting's face went very pale. "...Oh _no_."  
"What's the matter?"  
"I'm that!"  
"You're what?"  
"Intriguing!"  
"...I don't think you're intriguing..."  
"_She_ called me that!"  
"Who? Elen?"  
"She just called me intriguing five minutes ago!"  
Suddenly Ladril put two and two together. "...Oh _no_."

Shastan cradled his head in his hands and groaned. "I did warn you didn't I? I _told_ you she would be nothing but trouble. And now look what's happened! She rattles off wild stories, takes over the camp, and now she finds me _intriguing_!"  
"Now let's not panic, Shastan," Ladril admonished. "I am sure I can think of something..."  
The Swerting's head snapped up. "Tell her. Now."  
"Tell her what, exactly?"  
"That I don't like her."  
"You can't up and tell a woman something like that! You have to be careful and extremely subtle about such things."  
Shastan stared at him blankly. "Why go through the trouble? Why not simply tell her?"  
Ladril shook his head. "You have a lot to learn about women, my friend."  
Shastan eyed him incredulously. "_You_ don't know anything about women."  
"How would you know?"  
"If you did, you'd be courting Iorwen already."  
Ladril felt affronted. "Do you want me to help you or not?"  
"_Please_," Shastan dropped his head in his hands again. "I will not be able to set foot in that camp otherwise."  
"Leave it to me." With that Ladril strode with deliberation towards the campsite.

Elen was sitting patiently on a log when she saw the ranger approaching. "My lord? Where is Master Shastan?"  
"He's...chopping wood. I got tired, so he volunteered to finish the job."  
"I see," Elen's gaze turned far away. "That is so considerate of him."  
Ladril bit his lip. This was very bad indeed. He would need to approach the subject as indirectly as possible.  
"Lady Elen...I've been meaning to apologize to you."  
"For what?"  
"For our present company. It is not right to make a lady travel with a Southron."  
"Swerting, Master Ladril."  
"'Southron,' 'Swerting,' it makes no difference. They'd still cut your throat before looking at you. Foul, thieving desert rats the lot of them!"  
Elen was somewhat taken back. "But surely Shastan is not like that."  
"Oh he's much worse," Ladril declared, expanding the drama. "I would have been done for long ago if I hadn't kept a sword at my side every night. His only desire in life is to rob people blind!"  
He could almost feel Elen's hopes being dashed, but her face remained firm. "I refuse to believe that. Shastan does not seem like that kind of person at all."  
"I understand your reasoning, lady," Ladril shrugged. "He does look innocent in appearance, and you have lived a very sheltered life."  
Elen raised a brow. "I would hardly call nursing wounded soldiers a sheltered life." Ladril had to agree with her there. Nurses saw the same amount of horror any soldier would see on the battlefront. For all the time he knew Iorwen while she labored in the Houses of Healing, he could not deem her ignorant to the cruelties of the world-

Suddenly it hit him. It hit him with all the force of a charging mumak. _That's_ how Elen already knew his name! It had to be!

"Er...my lady..." Ladril said, trying to contain himself. "While you worked at the Houses of Healing, did you happen to know...Lady Iorwen?"  
There was a visible smirk on Elen's face. "Why yes, Master Ladril. She and I were quite good friends."  
_What did she say about me?!_ Ladril wanted to cry out, but his expression remained poised. "Did Lady Iorwen possibly...by chance...ever mention me?"  
Elen gazed up at the sky thoughtfully. "Why yes, now that you mention it, she did."  
"_What did she say?_" Ladril blurted, unable to hold it in any longer.  
"I am afraid I am not allowed to tell you, Master Ladril."  
"Why not?" Ladril demanded.  
"One cannot betray what is disclosed between two women. It simply isn't done."  
"But lady," Ladril got on one knee beside Elen and spoke as sweetly as possible. "We are in the middle of the wild. No one will ever know but the two of us, and I won't breathe a word of what you say. Just tell me what Iorwen thinks of me and I'll keep it to myself. I swear."  
"It isn't as easy as that; it is a matter of honor," She insisted. "Secrets between women are not to be taken lightly. They cannot be repeated for any other ears, no matter what the circumstance."  
"But women gossip all the time," Ladril pointed out.  
"Well!" Elen cried appalled. "If you hold women in such poor regard then I will not tell you anything!"  
"No wait!" Now Ladril was on both knees. "I'm sorry, that was very rude and inconsiderate and it will not happen again! Just _please_ tell me what Iorwen said!"  
"It's too late for that," Her voice was dripping with thorough disgust. "Your disrespect for women has left me deeply insulted."  
"I have respect for women! I have _great_ respect for women!"  
"If that is true, then you will leave a very distraught lady in peace."  
This left Ladril completely speechless. He wanted, no, _needed_ an answer from Elen, but he didn't want to make the situation worse. In the end he stiffly rose and backed out of the camp, giving a grudging bow before leaving.  
As soon as he was gone, Elen squeezed a hand around her mouth to suppress a torrent of giggles.

Shastan looked up as Ladril approached in scorching rage.  
"...How did it go?" Shastan tried.  
"_Women!_" The ranger heatedly spat.  
His friend nodded sagely. "It's wise never to get involved with them."  
"But why are women like that?" Ladril demanded. "Why do they have to complicate every single word a man says?"  
Shastan pondered a moment. "...Either they're stupid or they're very _very_ clever. That's the trouble with women, I'm afraid. You can never predict how they'll react." With some thought he added "-Sort of like the chicken when you cut its head off."

...Ladril blankly stared at the Swerting. "You can't compare women to chickens, Shastan."  
"Well I don't know how else to describe it! I don't know anymore about women than you do!"  
"And that's a shame," the ranger speculated. "Because we're going to be stuck with one for quite some time."  
There was a slight pause as the words sank in.  
"So what should we do?" Shastan wondered.  
Ladril raised his head in resolve. "We start learning."

And with that he turned back for the camp.


End file.
